


What We May Be

by louise_lux



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Attemped murder seduction, Cats, F/M, Fictional artists, First Time, Hannibal Big Bang, Hannigram - Freeform, Jealousy, M/M, Murder chat, Nude Drawings, Pining, Rude People, Small amount of Will/OFC, Sort of murder husbands, naked swimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-16
Updated: 2016-09-16
Packaged: 2018-08-15 10:02:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 30,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8052019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/louise_lux/pseuds/louise_lux
Summary: Post-fall, Hannibal and Will escape to Europe, wounded and hurting. Very quickly things turn bad, and Will seeks to hide them both away on a small island in the Mediterranean, to cut them off from the world and for them to be alone together. He needs to understand how he has changed Hannibal, and what that change means for Hannibal's behaviour. He also has to come to terms with their growing intimacy, both emotional and physical.  But Hannibal finds it difficult to stay hidden away and when they meet others on the island, Hannibal tries to persuade him into killing them.





	1. Chapter 1

The ferry crossing from Piraeus had taken all night. They'd boarded in darkness, and now the sky was flushed with pink and gold as they chugged into port. Will stood at the railing and watched land approach. Behind him, Hannibal sat on a bench, his eyes closed. White villas clustered on the low dun-coloured hillsides of the little island, and, stretching off behind them, small mountains were shaded blue with shadow. A row of palm trees lined the harbour road.

The harbour was busy. Taxis and scooters shunted around the square. Several boats were unloading their cargo: fish, tourists, pallets of dry goods. The air smelled of fish and fruit and diesel fuel. Sweet and salt.

"We're here," Will said.

Hannibal opened his eyes. It seemed to take him several seconds to focus and several more to stand. He raised his eyes to Will, and as always they lingered a fraction too long, as if Hannibal couldn't really believe Will were here. 

"Are you going to be able to make it to the car?" Will said quietly, as they made their slow way to the back of the queue. A herd of tourists milled around, waiting to disembark. They were mostly couples, most of them middle-aged and well-dressed, as many gay couples as straight.

Hannibal had dressed them to match everyone else, everything picked at speed from an overpriced boutique at Athens airport. He wore a short sleeved white shirt and well-cut pale linen trousers. Dark glasses, an unostentatious but nice watch, and a brown leather shoulder bag. Will wore the same, except his shirt was pale blue. They blended exactly with the other travellers, even down to their small wheeled luggage. The only jarring note was their pallor, tokens of hard winters and gut wounds. 

"I'll be fine," Hannibal said. It didn't seem likely, but Will nodded. 

Apart from the gauntness of his cheeks and the slight hitch as he moved, there was almost no sign of his wound, but Will guessed he must be nearly at the end of his strength. Will's cheek was painted with panstick and his shoulder was strapped tight. A fresh wound on his stomach throbbed under the blanket of painkillers. It was less than 24 hours old, and thankfully not deep. Hannibal hadn't had time to do more than stitch and bind it before they'd hurriedly left Milan. 

They picked up the car from a rental kiosk plastered in bright yellow plastic. "I'll drive," Will said, plucking the keys from Hannibal's hand. "Don't even try."

Hannibal didn't complain, but instead meekly folded himself into the passenger seat while Will loaded their bags into the trunk, pausing between bags to catch his breath. His shoulder screamed at him. They collected the house rental keys from a small agency in the centre of town. Hannibal spoke decent basic Greek, and had taught Will a few phrases when he'd asked. 

Afterwards, Hannibal climbed back into the front seat and closed his eyes. He only opened them again when Will pulled into the parking lot of a small market.

"We're going to need at least enough for tonight," Will said. He paused, feeling lost in this conversation already. "What do you want to eat?"

Their eyes met. " You decide."

"Are you sure about that? Because I might pick canned hotdogs."

"I've eaten worse." Hannibal's smile was small, but Will was glad to see it.

"Stay here," Will said. "I won't be long."

In the end he loaded up with far more than he'd planned, in a kind of slow motion supermarket sweep. Fresh bread, fish, olives, butter and soft crumbling goat cheese. Pork, lamb. Peaches and a melon and grapes. Beefsteak tomatoes, cucumber, onions. Coffee and tea, milk, a few litres of the local white wine, better red wine, imported beer. Local honeycomb. It wasn't gourmet, but Will reasoned that three years of prison food would have made Hannibal less picky. 

He loaded up the car and they set off. Hannibal had his eyes closed again and Will couldn't tell if he was sleeping. He switched off the slow cold voice of the GPS and used the map he'd picked up at the market instead. The sun had risen to almost its zenith by the time he turned off the main island road to their destination.

The villa was hidden down a long newly-paved track that had been cut through an olive grove. It was bounded by high walls and electronic gates, part of the reason Will had chosen it. 

A donkey was tethered under one of the trees and it stared as they drove past. The house looked as old as the groves, a low white-painted traditional house with pairs of dark green shutters flanking each window. It was shaded by olives on one side, and the other side faced the sea. That side had a long vine-covered verandah. There was a large terrace and a pool, and a small wooden gate that led down through more olive groves, presumably to a beach. He turned to tell Hannibal they were here, and found him asleep, head lolling to one side. 

Will unloaded the groceries and took their luggage into the house, then came back to gently shake Hannibal awake. Hannibal blinked and looked up at him, soft and bleary.

"We're here," Will said. 

Hannibal sighed and smiled up at him. "Good."

He allowed Will to help him stand, and they went inside. The front door opened onto a large kitchen and living room. The interior was immaculate; it had obviously been modernised fairly recently. There seemed to be oceans of white marble and white paint. The kitchen gleamed with stainless steel and a long dark wood dining table. Over by the French windows sat two fat white sofas. Will was pleased to see the wood-burning stove squatting against the wall between them. Someone had left a vase of flowers, white roses, and a welcome basket on the dining table. There was a card propped on it from the realtor's office. That same someone, probably, had drawn a smiley face on it.

"This place looks untouched," Will said. 

"As if it were waiting for us," said Hannibal. He still had his hand on Will's arm. "The kitchen is good." 

Will left him to inspect it further and went to investigate the bedrooms. There were three, all painted white like the rest of the place, and all airy. Big beds, expensive looking wooden furniture, small ensuite bathrooms and a shared, larger bathroom that had a real tub. Will dumped his bag in the bedroom that faced the high wall that bounded the estate. It was covered in orange bougainvillea and beyond it were the tops of the olive trees in the grove. 

He had nothing against the sea view, but he didn't want the sound to invade his dreams. Even in the stuffy close air of the room, he shivered. Atlantic cold lasted a long time, it seemed. He heard distant beeps and then the air conditioning unit in his room whirred softly to life. 

He had almost nothing to unpack, only toiletries and a change of clothes. They'd travelled as lightly as they could, as lightly as the fleeing criminals they were. He washed his face in the bathroom. The water ran beige with panstick, and once it was off he grimaced at himself. He looked a horror. 

He finished placing his few items into the top drawer of the dresser and went to find Hannibal. He had appropriated what must have been intended as the master bedroom. It was twice the size of Will's and had large glazed doors that led out onto the terrace, and beyond the terrace was the sea, misty blue in the heat of midday. Hannibal was sitting on the bed with his shirt off. His lower stomach was freshly bandaged. His left side was a mess of purple and red bruises. 

Old bandages were curled on the floor in a heap, stained with blood and fluid. 

"You could have asked me," Will said.

"I can do it myself," Hannibal said. His voice was calm and clear, so steady, apart from the nearly imperceptible waver. He must be in a lot of pain

"If you say so," Will said. He looked at Hannibal's straight back and the map of violence laid out over it. Flesh was weak, but his spirit was still iron hard. It had always drawn him to Hannibal, even during the worst times. His resilience was admirable, and Will prized resilience over almost everything else. Molly had been resilient. Probably still was. He went over to pick up the bandages. 

"Thank you," Hannibal said, as Will left the room.

Later, much later, Hannibal appeared in the kitchen. Will was scratching his head over the best place for the olive oil. 

"By the stovetop," Hannibal said.

They moved around each other, sharing brief words about the best place for salt, or the fresh vegetables. Hannibal turned away to stock the fridge, bending gingerly with a jug of milk before Will took it off him. The last time he'd done something this domestic, it had been with Molly. He looked down at the loaf of bread he was holding. 

"Are we really playing house?" Will said. "It feels like a dream."

"At least you don't call it nightmare." 

Will put the bread into a cupboard, pretty much at random. "I don't--" he began, feeling like his throat was closing up. "Whatever else it is, I don't regret being here." I don't regret you. "We should eat," he went on. "Can you eat?"

Hannibal accepted the change of subject. "I certainly need something to offset the painkillers. What would you like?"

“Are you even up to cooking anything?”

He was probably dying from the need to sear some meat or make a jus, but he merely shrugged. "No. But I'd like a routine again. Food, work, leisure. Without structure we can so quickly crumble. If we're going to stay here, we both need one.”

“Is that what we're doing, staying here?”

“You decided to bring us here, and I accepted your choice. So, yes.”

“For now?”

“There is no caveat. For as long as you like.”

Will took in a shuddering breath. “I just needed to stop.”

“I know,” Hannibal said, softly. "You should pan fry the pork. We'll have it with a green salad." 

Hannibal made them both coffee while Will cooked pork under instruction and turned a pile of greenery into a salad by dint of throwing it into a wooden bowl. They took it out to the wooden table on the terrace. Stippled light fell across it, filtering through the vine leaves like sunlight through water. The afternoon air was close and thick. Beyond the terrace, the sea hung behind the olives like a pale turquoise banner.

"I might get a boat,” Will said.

“Is the ocean calling you already?”

“With a deafening roar," Will said. "I could teach you to sail."

The floor of the stolen boat had been liver red with dried blood. Will had stitched Hannibal up himself, and for nearly a week they'd lived off purloined antibiotics, tinned soup and bad coffee, sailing south against a bullying current and angry winds, their destination Mexico. Will had navigated and Hannibal had spent much of it lying in the only bunk, fighting off a fever. He'd been delirious, and the words that had fallen from his lips still rang in Will's ears. _I love. I ache. Stay with me._ He didn't know if Hannibal remembered any of it.

They hadn't spoken of that week at all.

“Once you're competent, we can sail wherever we like,” Will said.

"I would like that very much."

Neither of them used the word 'escape'. They didn't need to.

After lunch Hannibal went to his room to rest. Will walked down the path to the beach. Broken rocks and bamboo thickets edged a long curve of sand, which was empty apart from him. Will took his shoes and socks off and walked barefoot to the water. Sweat formed along his spine, and the memories of their fall came crashing down on him. He stepped back, his head spinning. He stood for a long time watching the pale edges of tiny waves wet the sand and tried to fight his own fear. The Atlantic had frozen him to the bone. 

Later, after a simple meal of bread, cheese, and olives, they sat side by side on the terrace and watched the moon rise out of the soup of warm thick air. Bats swooped past their heads, chasing down the fat slow moths that fluttered next to the lamps. The air smelled of oil-rich herbs and of hot baked earth. Hannibal had poured them each a glass of wine. Whatever painkillers he'd taken made his speech soft and slow.

“Is this what you imagined your future to be?” Hannibal said. “Your escape?”

“Since when? My vision of the future seemed to change almost daily back in Baltimore.” He sipped the wine. The tannins slid over his tongue. “You had a lot to do with that."

“You altered mine too, if you recall.”

“Is it that simple? You change mine, I change yours, and here we end up.”

“More than a sum of our parts.”

Will looked over at him. “Maybe we are,” he said, softly. “How long did you last go without killing anyone?”

Hannibal would tell him anything he wanted to know. There were no boundaries now, not since that night on the bluffs. They'd died together that night, and that had changed things. Will didn't know if either of them had come back to life quite the same.

“Five years,” Hannibal said. “After my employment at Johns Hopkins, I wanted to establish myself as a respectable cog in the social wheel.”

“You didn't want to risk that?”

“As you know, I'm not risk averse. But I liked my life. I was right to like it. It satisfied me for a long time. Until I met you.”

Will flushed under his gaze. Even in the solid heat of the evening, he could feel it on his skin, moving like a breath of air. Bedelia's cold smile percolated through the space between now and then, and so did her her slow voice, serpent-like, coiling towards him through the years. _Do you ache for him?_

Will could count on one hand the people who had professed love for him and none of them had been men. After Hannibal had caged himself, when Molly came, he'd packed away the idea of Hannibal loving him, stored it in a dark and locked room with Hannibal himself. But the door to that room stood open now, and Hannibal walked free. He knew without having to hear it that Hannibal still loved him. 

Will had no idea what to do with it. 

Distant, somewhere, came the sputter of a scooter engine as it rushed along the road. It was the only living sound to break the silence. The bats and moths made no noise, and for now the cicadas had stopped their creaking. Behind the trees, the white noise of the sea rose and fell. Beside him, Hannibal was a dark and living presence. 

“I changed you,” Will said, testing the power of the words.

“Yes, you did.”

“Is it possible to quantify how much?”

“I made my living from quantifying change in my clients,” Hannibal said. “Of course, I derived some amusement from certain aspects of it at the same time.”

“Your baseline measurement for change being 'have they killed someone yet?'” Will said.

“You fulfilled that criteria of change almost immediately after we met.”

"Because of your machinations." Will looked down into his wine. 

His reflection wavered up at him. Over to the left, the cicadas flung themselves into another symphony. Out on the hillside somewhere, dogs began to bark, an answering back and forth, a loud conversation carried on with no regard for sleeping humans. Will raised his head. Hannibal was watching him with a soft open expression that looked very much like sympathy.

“I-- I didn't ever want to kill anyone,” Will said.

“I know,” Hannibal said, in a voice as low and as soft as the velvet night. 

"If I'd never met you, I wouldn't have."

"And how fragile you would have remained," Hannibal said. "Scared of your own desires. A shadow of who you are now."

Will swallowed down the last of his wine in one mouthful and stood. Anger shook his hands, but it was because Hannibal was right. The cruel edge of Hannibal's love had opened him up and put him back together again a better man, someone stronger. "I'm going to bed.”

Hannibal's eyes were deep in shadow. Will couldn't see the light in them. “Good night. Sleep well.”

In his room, Will undressed and lay down. The air was stifling, but he preferred it to the morgue-like chill of the air conditioning. Five years. He flexed his hand, the one that had wielded the knife on Dolarhyde. The euphoric rush of it was still with him, lodged deep inside. It'd been better than any sex, any other moment in his life. 

The only thing better had been Hannibal's acceptance and love, complete and whole. His recollection of it was almost tangible, and he fell asleep with it held close.

There was a figure on the terrace, a man, his face in shadow. “Will,” it said, in a grating familiar voice. The stench of dead earth came with it as it shambled towards him.

Hannibal was at the dining table, and so was Garrett Jacob Hobbs. They were waiting for him, and for the shadow man too. Hannibal had made food, and it smelled good. It always smelled good, but this time his stomach churned and terror slid down his back like ice. The shadow figure was coming into the light.

“Sit at the table,” Hobbs said.

“Don't be afraid,” said Hannibal, when Will hesitated. He reached for Will's hand, and Will took it. They wanted the best for him. They wanted him to eat.

So he sat, and so did the shadow. Then he saw that it wore his own face, and it was the face of a dead man. His eyes were gone.

“No!” He turned to see that Hannibal had abandoned him. Liquid terror filled him. “Hannibal!”

“I'm here.”

Will woke to find he could hardly breathe. He was gripping someone's hand, and for a second all he could think was that it was his own dead self come to haunt him for real. But it wasn't. It was Hannibal. Will sagged with relief and gasped, choking on air.

“Breathe,” Hannibal said. "Will, you're all right."

“Just. Just a nightmare. I'm fine,” Will said. His body was wet with sweat. He clung onto Hannibal's hand.

“Your subconscious is allowing your fear out to play. You must feel safe here.”

Did he? It was hard to tell, with a large part of his mind still back on the Atlantic coast. Will stood on legs that still shook, and walked past Hannibal to the bathroom. He scrubbed sweat off his skin with a towel. "But we're not safe, are we?" he said. 

Hannibal leaned against the door frame. "Is that what you would like life to be? Something safe?"

"Ideally, yes." He didn't mean to sound so angry but it came out anyway. He threw the towel into a corner, petulantly hoping it would piss Hannibal off. "Most people do. Most people who aren't you."

"Or you. In Milan, you…"

Will cut him off. "I don't want to talk about that."

"Then we won't," Hannibal said. His skin was grey in the harsh light of the bathroom. "I'd prefer you to feel safe, Will."

He meant it, that much was plain. But he was also looking dead on his feet. "Go back to bed," Will said. "I'll be fine." 

"If you insist." 

"I do. Go."

Hannibal bade him goodnight and turned and made his way slowly to his room, one hand skimming the wall for support. Will watched him go. He shouldn't even be on his feet. That gut wound was barely even beginning to heal. But Hannibal had reserves of stamina that were astounding. 

He thought about that in the shower as he rinsed the nightmare from his skin. Hannibal had taken a beating and a half from Dolarhyde. They both had. Will could still hear the crunch of bone and flesh and feel the sickening slide of a knife blade into his body. Scars were the payment for being close to Hannibal. Will had two new ones to add to his collection. How many more would he have by the end of this year? 

*

At dawn, groggy from too little sleep and the after images of his bad dreams, he went out onto the terrace. Their pool was tiled a pale blue and smelled faintly of chlorine, and it seemed an absurd luxury to suddenly have this, and an undeserved one. He slipped off his boxers and waded in. The water murmured quietly as it slid over his body, the sound as calming as the soft brush of a dog's tail.

Will rolled onto his back, careful of his shoulder. Through the trees he could see the dull dawn blue of the Aegean, the sky soft above it. A dusty mass of hillside rose above the house. An unidentifiable bird circled over the tops of distant trees. It was the only thing moving. 

He floated, and the shape of the day unfolded. He'd feed Hannibal and check his own wounds and Hannibal's. He needed to look through Hannibal's medical bag and check their supplies. They'd need more bandages, antiseptic and antibiotics. They'd passed a few drugstores on their way here. Later today, maybe, or tomorrow, he could drive out to one. He closed his eyes, feeling the thump of his heart, as if it were shocked at such mundane thoughts. But life had to go on. Theirs had, albeit unexpectedly.

He waded from the pool, dried off and dressed, then set about making coffee. He found the eggs he'd bought yesterday in the fridge and cracked several in a bowl. Not exactly gourmet, but he knew that Hannibal liked scrambled eggs. It'd been the first thing Hannibal had served him, with parts of Marissa Schur. He swallowed down the stale taste of ancient betrayal and spooned ground coffee into a french press that he found in a cupboard. He inhaled the bitter earthy scent as he poured in hot water. 

A door opened and closed, and then came the slow pad of bare feet on marble. Hannibal appeared, framed in the doorway. He wore loose pajama bottoms and a t-shirt, and he moved stiffly. 

"Smells good," he said, when Will handed him coffee. 

"Feeling any better?" Will said. 

"Marginally. You?" 

"Make that two marginallys." Will spooned eggs onto two plates and turned away to butter toast. "Thanks for last night."

"I feel like I did very little to help. Were you able to sleep again?" 

"Yeah, some. I'm used to it. But you know that." He looked down at the toast, shoving it onto the plates. "You did help." Hannibal's hand in his had felt like an anchor. 

They sat at the kitchen table, moving slowly, bending carefully to sit. The table was dark stained wood, and the chairs were white painted bentwood with wicker bottoms. The welcome fruit basket still sat there: apricots, lemons and a yellow melon. They smelled sweet and rich, almost decadent. 

"Have you always suffered from nightmares?" Hannibal said, after a few bites of egg. 

"Even as a kid, yeah. They weren't so bad back then. They began to get worse after I joined the force."

"After you learned first hand what people were capable of. It taught you what you were capable of, too."

"No, you taught me that." His lessons had spanned years, a long hard schooling.

"Then I should feel honoured," Hannibal said, quietly. "Although I'm sorry about the nightmares."

He sounded genuinely regretful. Will decided to take it at face value, and drank his coffee and watched Hannibal eat. He was getting through his plate of eggs pretty well, and Will was glad to see it.

In Maine, Molly had worked at the local school and he'd kept house, and had done it happily. He'd been able to save enough over the years in Wolf Trap to give him some freedom. He'd taken odd jobs here and there: fixing up trucks, some carpentry projects for Molly's school, a set of shelves for the local library. 

Now, they had Hannibal's money. He hadn't asked about it, but Hannibal had spent freely so far, and so had he, on credit cards belonging to people he'd never heard of: Sven Ure, Jonathan Blakemore, Simon Garou. Hannibal's funds had paid for their flights from Mexico, flights from Paris to Milan, from Milan to Athens, all their hotel rooms, their new clothes, and this place. It should feel like ill-gotten gains but it didn't.

"You haven't finished your eggs," Hannibal said, breaking into his thoughts. He smiled, steady and calm, a memory of his old self, telling Will that he would find him interesting. Will was interested in little else now. "Eat up."

Will picked up his fork and ate. "You look terrible. How's your temperature?" 

"Too high," Hannibal said. "But I'll probably be fine."

"Probably? That's not filling me with confidence."

"If I'm not fine, we'll think of something," Hannibal said. "Together." He was unhealthily pale, and his skin looked grey and rough. "Did you swim this morning?" 

"If you could call it that. I floated."

"Be careful of your shoulder. Dry it well." 

He spoke with a calm assertion of a doctor, and Will found it touching that Hannibal should care after all the wounds they'd taken from each other. He remembered careful fingers lifting his chin, feeding him a watery herb infusion. Hannibal had always been gentle with him, when he wasn't creating apertures into Will's body. 

Will realised he was staring, and dragged his gaze away. "I thought I'd go look for a drugstore," he said. "Get it out the way. Will you tell me what we need?"

Hannibal nodded, agreeing easily. He assumed Will wouldn't just take off and vanish, and that trust was astonishing. Will had turned the idea round and round in the past week, like a puzzle he couldn't solve. He'd had more than a few chances to jump ship, literally. One night, on the coast of Georgia, they'd pulled into a small holiday resort. Early evening the beach had been busy with groups of young people and young families. He could have walked, then, just taken off his shoes, rolled up his pants and pretended to be nothing but a tourist until he had walked down that beach and away into the night, leaving Hannibal to sweat and moan alone, and probably die.

"I won't be gone long," he said now. "You can call me if you need to."

Hannibal's lids were sagging a little already, but he gave Will a sharp look, as if he could see every thought in his head. "Fetch my bag. We'll go through it now." 

They counted out bandages, syringes, painkillers, pills. Hannibal calculated what they'd need for at least a week. "Too much, and they will begin to wonder if you're setting up in business yourself."

Will made a note on his phone of everything they needed. Hannibal had bought it for him at the airport. It was newer than any phone he'd ever had.

Hannibal stood, raising himself shakily. There was a spot of bright blood on his t-shirt, and he put a hand over it, looking down. 

"You're bleeding again," Will said. 

"It's nothing."

"It's a little premature for your martyrdom," Will said. "Let me see."

"Not here. The bathroom." Hannibal sighed as he moved. "Yesterday may have been too much for me after all." He looked over his shoulder at Will, eyes soft, far too soft, beneath his dishevelled hair. "But I wouldn't have it any other way."

It had taken them barely an hour to get out of their hotel and to the airport. Will bit his lip on wanting to apologise. It wouldn't do any good, and he wasn't actually sorry for what he'd done.

They walked slowly down the hall. Hannibal leaned against the sink and let Will unwind his bandages. The entry wound was a small red mouth, shocked into a surprised 'O'. It looked clean. The exit wound was messier, a ragged explosion of skin, and it was bleeding sluggishly. 

"It will stop again," Hannibal said. "Eventually." 

"How's the pain?" 

"It's not unbearable," Hannibal said. 

"That's a relief," Will said wryly, and was glad to see Hannibal's smile. He took out antiseptic wipes, fresh bandages, and a new dressing. He cleaned the wound very gently and listened to Hannibal's carefully slow breathing. He applied antibiotic cream, then a clean dressing, pressing the edges down carefully.

"Raise your arms," he said, and Hannibal did, gingerly, just enough for Will to reach around with the bandage roll. He began on the hipbone and worked his way up to above Hannibal's navel. "Painkillers," he said, and Hannibal nodded, taking them and swallowing them down with water. 

He walked Hannibal the few steps to his room, an arm under his elbow, and watched from the door as Hannibal shuffled to his bed and lay down, bracing himself on his arms as he did so. Will had done the same for months, when he was finally back home after his stomach wound. He'd felt decrepit, his recovery slow. 

"Don't worry about me, Will," Hannibal said, as if listening directly to his thoughts. He closed his eyes and turned his face away. 

Will returned to the bathroom to check his own dressings. Brown blood had caked the one on his new wound: a shallow gash that skated south to north across the scar Hannibal had given him. He was beginning to look cross-hatched, like one of Hannibal's drawings. He washed it and applied more cream. It was healing already, and there was no infection. He dug out the panstick and began to smooth it onto his cheek. His beard covered the worst of the stab wound now, but it helped to tone down the bruising. 

*

Will locked the door behind him as he left. Foolish, perhaps, but it was the best he could think of. It wouldn't stop anyone who had tracked them here, of course, but he doubted that anyone had. They had been vigilant, and the customs officials had shown no interest in them at the border. The TV in the bar on the ferry had played rolling news, but it had been politics and sports pretty much exclusively. There had been no mention of Milan or a killing, no mugshot showing Hannibal's expressionless face, cold as ice even through a screen. They appeared to be as safe as they could be.

It was possible that the cop who'd spotted them in Milan hadn't told anyone about his discovery. Another questura man going for glory, like Pazzi. Unless Alana and Margot had decided to finish what Mason had begun, and had put a bounty on them? 

He thought about that as he drove back along the main road into town. Alana might do that, now that Hannibal was free. She had moulded her new life around his captivity. Alana was a threat; he'd have to talk to Hannibal. 

But that cop had recognised Hannibal, whatever the reason, and that meant it could happen here too. It was just less likely. He donned the hat and the expensive sunglasses that Hannibal had made him pick out. Anywhere else and they would be a ridiculous disguise. But here he'd look odd without them.

He found a large pharmacy and managed to purchase everything Hannibal wanted, with a little help from the translation programme on his phone. Afterwards, stepping out into the warm morning, he decided to take a walk around the town. Hannibal would be sleeping, and there was no actual need to hurry back, however much he wanted to. He hadn't had Hannibal out of his sight for more than an hour since they'd left and, even though that hour had proved to be disastrous, he needed to learn to be apart from him again. 

He knew it was more than just worry at being discovered. He was gorging on Hannibal's presence; on the way he spoke Will's name, on the volumes of meaning behind each word, on being known, on their shared history. Get it while you can, a greedy small voice said. You don't know how long you've got with him.

The streets were paved with pale stone, and the building were tall and made of a similar stone, with black iron balconies. The island seemed to be doing well for itself as a playground for the well to do and comfortably off. He strolled past elegant cafes and boutiques. A gallery stood on one corner, flanked by a bar and a jeweller's. He stopped to look at the paintings displayed in the windows. They were good - pencil sketches of the harbour and the fishing boats. Nothing groundbreaking, but Will liked them. He walked to the harbour itself and found what he'd been hoping for. 

The place smelled like any fishing goods store he'd ever set foot in; the earthy scent of bait mixed with the smell of oilcloth and rubber fumes. He exchanged a few words with the young guy behind the desk, and made it clear he was just looking. 

Will stood in front of the racks of fishing rods and pictured himself catching a tuna, or a swordfish. Well, he'd need a boat for those. Maybe a bream or a red mullet, something easy to catch from the shore. Hannibal would appreciate the fresh seafood. 

The idea hooked him hard, the tiny sharp tug of it biting into him, the simplicity and homeliness. He'd had that life with Molly and Walter, what seemed like years ago but was really only weeks and months. Now he had Hannibal, and Hannibal had him. His ring finger still bore a telltale pale banded indentation. 

Molly didn't even know if he was alive or dead, and the guilt of that curdled his gut. But Hannibal had been right. Life would have become polite, even with her, because he hadn't let her know him. Telling her the whole truth about his relationship with Hannibal had been out of the question. 

He snapped back to the present, still in front of the sea angling rods. It was time he went back. 

*

Hannibal was still asleep when he returned. He lay still under a crisp white sheet as if he hadn't moved. Worry gnawed at Will, and he stepped into the room and walked over to the bed. He laid a hand on Hannibal's forehead. It was a little warm, but nothing like it had been as they'd sailed down the coast. 

Hannibal made a soft sound and opened his eyes. His lips parted a little. "Will," he said. "You came back." 

Will left his hand where it was, just resting there, fingertips brushing across Hannibal's skin. It felt mindlessly good to touch him. "Of course I came back," he said. "What did you think was going to happen?"

Hannibal gazed up at him. "The future is quite opaque. I don't know how our lives could possibly unfold. I do try not to make predictions. Takes away the fun."

"I predict that I'm going to make you lunch," Will said and let his hand fall away. 

Hannibal sat up slowly and swung himself out of bed. His feet were still bare. They had high arched insteps and defined tendons. "What are you planning?" 

Will thought back to the simple lunches he'd put together for Molly and Walter. Molly had responded enthusiastically to every dish he'd ever gave her, even toast, and Walter, god bless him, hadn't been even slightly picky. "I picked up some fresh bread in town. And there's tomatoes, cheese, some fruit."

Hannibal smiled, lines etching out from the corners of his eyes, and it hit Will like stray beam of sunlight. "Simple ingredients are best, if you can get them at their freshest." 

Will followed him out of the room, watching the painful hitch in his gait. 

They took their meal outside again.

"Did you enjoy your trip?" Hannibal asked, as they ate. 

A pattern of leaves from the vine above them played across his face. He looked more haggard than ever. It would be good for him to get some sun. They could take some walks when they were both feeling fitter, maybe explore the hills that rose above them. 

"It was necessary. I picked up the Washington Post for you."

Hannibal looked up with a smile. "Do we get a mention?" 

"No. Why, do you want it for your clippings book?" 

"Do you suppose Dolarhyde kept a clippings book?" Hannibal said, as if asking about the weather. "I'm sure he did, a palimpsest of madness."

"And you were his prize pinup."

Hannibal studied him. "Were you jealous of him, Will?"

Yes. The truth of it was uncomfortable. Dolarhyde had been given access to the real Hannibal, no veils to be coyly pulled aside. Hannibal had given him that intimacy, immediately and wholly. The taste of the soft fresh bread soured at the back of his throat. 

Every word and thought led back to Dolarhyde, eventually, and to the moment they'd killed him. He was aware of Hannibal watching him, reading his thoughts. 

"You had nothing to be jealous of, believe me," Hannibal said. 

Will drew a breath and pushed away his plate. They'd have to talk about him at some point. Will just hadn't wanted it to be now. But no time would be a good time. "It didn't feel like that at the time," he said. 

"What did it feel like?" 

"That I was back in a world I didn't want to be in. That I hated every second of it."

"I did try to warn you." 

Will snorted. "You knew I'd be drawn back in. Drawn back to you. You were waiting. And there he was, too. Your biggest fan."

"Jealousy is a crude emotion, and often not useful. But occasionally acting on it can bring the desired result." Hannibal began to slice a peach: a half, a quarter, an eighth. He ate half of it before he spoke again. "Did you think we'd all die together, the three of us, Will?"

"It seemed easiest that way. I didn't expect to come out of it alive." 

"When did you decide to kill him instead of me?"

The afternoon seemed very still suddenly, as if the world had fallen asleep around them. "When he assumed he could change you... could have you, that you were his." Will stuttered to a halt, anger stinging like bile in his throat. "That's when."

He hardly dared meet Hannibal's eyes, but when he did he saw that perhaps Hannibal hadn't calculated for this level of honesty. Or perhaps he had. 

"Now you have me, instead," Hannibal said, after carefully slicing the rest of the peach. "What will you do with me? Kill me again?" 

"That serially hasn't worked."

"You almost succeeded, this last time."

Out on the water, a small white boat sailed by. Strange that the world was going about its business while they talked about death. Their own deaths. "You let me pull you over that edge," Will said. "I felt it. You didn't struggle."

Hannibal looked down at the remains of the peach, unable or unwilling to meet Will's eyes. "I found that I could let you decide our fate." He spoke the words offhandedly, as if it weren't the most momentous decision of his life. 

Will swallowed tightly. "Are you still willing to let me decide?" 

"I'm here, am I not?"

"That's not a yes."

Hannibal did meet his eyes then. "Give me time, Will."


	2. Chapter 2

Days passed, slow as the drip of honey from a spoon. The donkey belonged to a local farmer, a man called Nikos who owned the land next to their house. Two men came to service the pool once a week in the summer, and would come to clean it at the end of the season. 

They had had a cleaner for one day, Eleni, Nikos's daughter. She had the sort of rangy outdoorsiness that Will liked in women. But Hannibal had given her such a flat blank look that Will had let Nikos know that they wouldn't be needing her again. He still felt bad about that, but he guessed she could get more work easily. The fewer the people who came here the better. The fewer the people who could pique Hannibal's interest. No, his jealousy. Will needed to be honest about that. 

They both slept prodigiously. Will walked on the beach each morning and tried not to think about the future, or about what they were going to do with themselves. In the afternoons he slept again. Hannibal surfaced for the simple meals Will cooked, but little else. Will looked in on him from time to time, worried, but Hannibal would be under a rumpled white sheet in his huge bed, breathing deeply, his limbs heavy with sleep. He appeared untroubled, his brow smooth and his mouth soft, and Will found he had to force himself to look away. 

It was quiet here, quieter than their house in Maine, and a long way from the unremitting din of the BSHCI. There were only a handful of houses this side of the mountain, dotted along the road a mile or so apart. It suited Will. The beach had been reliably deserted, and most days he didn't hear a human voice that wasn't Hannibal's. That was just fine with him. More than fine. 

This morning, before the heat could get a hold on the day, he took a slice of fresh melon out to the donkey, letting himself out through the wrought iron gate. Across the grove, near a concrete bunker-like storage shed, Nikos was doing something with a pump and a hose and a battered toolbox. He raised a hand to wave at Will. 

Crouched down in those blue overalls, Nikos looked like his dad. Will waved back, aware that he shouldn't be strengthening connections here but unwilling to ignore the friendly gesture. 

The donkey brayed in excitement as he approached.

"Hey, boy, he said. "I should give you a name. Maybe you already have one?" He stroked its dusty nose as it chomped on the melon.

Had Molly kept the dogs? She might have had them rehomed, let go of the memories. She should hate him and move on. Winston would adapt. He was a good dog. The stab of loss that came then was terrible. It hit him broadside and for a minute or more he bowed his head, fingers sliding into the coarse fur at the donkey's neck, as hot tears slid down his face and dripped into the dusty earth. They darkened it for a fleeting moment. 

He wiped his eyes hard and patted the donkey goodbye, then walked back under the olive trees to the house, feeling raw and directionless. He needed to something to occupy him, at least temporarily.

He fixed himself a quick breakfast of bread and goat cheese and coffee, then took up his wallet, locked the door behind him, and set off for town again.

This time he made his way straight to the fishing store. He'd decided what to get as he drove, and it didn't take him long to pick out the rods and hooks he wanted. He chose the best in the shop. He took longer over the fly tying equipment, finally selecting the feathers, lures and wires he wanted, along with a clamp and a good tool-set. The clerk didn't raise an eyebrow at the credit card (Jonathan Blakemore), and it went through fine. 

"We can deliver it for you, sir," the young man said, in thickly accented English.

"No need." The thought of anyone else unnecessarily coming to the house gave him a cold sweat. "I'll bring the car round."

On the way back, he passed the gallery again. The beautiful pencil sketches were still in the window. They reminded him a little of Hannibal's style, but these were freer and more nuanced somehow. He hadn't noticed before, but the shop also had a discreet display of art materials on the far wall. He stopped and before he could think too hard about it he pushed open the door and stepped in. 

The chilled air was almost a shock after the heat outside. The gallery had a few customers: several well dressed couples cruised the paintings. Will couldn't say if he liked much of the art. Many of the pieces featured bright splashes of colour and artistically scribbled words. 

He chose a sketch pad for Hannibal, the same size as the one he'd seen him use in Baltimore. Would he want pencils or charcoal? Will chose a pack of each and took them to the counter. A woman dressed in a simple, elegant grey dress stood there, and she smiled at him. It was such a warm smile that Will was disoriented for a moment, reminded helplessly of Molly. 

"They aren't for you, are they?"

"Is it that obvious?" Will said. 

She smiled again. "Sorry, but I get into the habit of people-watching. You looked a little lost while choosing them. Unless you're just starting out?" 

"I'm not," was all he said. 

If she was fazed, she hid it well. "I run drawing classes down by the harbour, if you're interested?" she said. "Two hours, with a free glass of wine. It's popular. We have a lot of amatuer artists here on the island."

"It really doesn't sound like my kind of thing," Will said. 

She handed him his package, and her fingertips touched his, entirely on purpose it seemed. They were smooth and cold, like marble. He saw her note his missing wedding ring, and she saw him notice. She smiled at him again, wider this time, something actually genuine. "What is your kind of thing?"

She was attractive without being showy, clearly intelligent, warm. She was his type, and he should be attracted to her. Her brown eyes held interest and flirtation. But nothing answered within him. Instead he saw Hannibal stretched asleep under a thin cotton sheet, lost to dreams.

"Fishing, mostly," Will said, hoping it made him sound dull enough. 

She took a card from the stack on the counter and pushed it over to him. "The bay where I live has some of the best fishing on the island. I'm having a small gathering this evening, and you're very welcome."

He stared down at it. Since Molly, he'd had trouble with his casual rudeness. She'd softened the world for him, made it likeable. He decided he wanted to keep that part of himself. He needed it. He picked it up, and hitched his face into a smile for her. 

"It's kind of you, but I'm not the sociable type." 

"Oh? You're the honest type though. I like that. Feel free to come over if you change your mind. We'll be staying up late."

It would take a personality transplant to change his mind, but he didn't tell her that. He gathered up his purchases and left, and she gave him a little wave through the window.

*

Hannibal was in the kitchen when he returned, standing at the counter dressed in a white shirt and slacks. A joint of meat sat in front of him. He looked so entirely like his old self that Will leaned against the doorframe, sick relief almost making his knees shake. 

"Good afternoon, Will," Hannibal said, with a warm smile. He looked at the pile of rods and tackle that Will had dumped by the door. "Have you been treating yourself? I'm delighted you've been spending my money." 

Will felt himself flush. "You look like you're feeling better," he said, after a deep breath. 

"Sleep heals all," said Hannibal. "Eventually. It's healed me, for the most part. So I'm making dinner to celebrate." 

"What is it?" Will said.

"Roast lamb," Hannibal said, and his smile was a whipline made of equal parts hurt and amusement.

"The last thing you served me, before… " Will tailed off, unable to say it. 

"Before our interests diverged so catastrophically," Hannibal said. "All those years ago."

"That's a diplomatic way of putting it. Aren't we beyond diplomatic?" 

"How would you put it?" Hannibal said. 

"Before I betrayed you." 

"You shouldn't feel guilty about ancient history, Will. No good will come of it."

"Feeling guilty about ancient history stops us repeating past mistakes."

Hannibal paused for several seconds, looking at him, knife blade buried in a bunch of fragrant rosemary. God only knew where he'd gotten it; he must've had to stalk the grounds to find it. 

Will stepped forward and laid the package on the counter. "I bought you something," he said. 

Hannibal wiped off his hands and opened the bag. He took out the boxes of pencils and charcoal, and the pad. He rubbed a thumb over the edges of the paper. 

"I hope it's okay. I wasn't sure what you like to use." 

"This is excellent quality. It's very thoughtful of you, Will. Thank you."

"It's no problem."

Hannibal laid the pad and pencils aside and took up his knife. "Although I could surmise that you'd like to keep me occupied."

"You'd be right about that."

Hannibal brushed the chopped rosemary into a bowl and turned away to the fridge. He took out a slab of meat. He didn't look entirely happy as he began to rub salt and pepper into its skin. "It'll take more than pencils and paper, Will," he said. 

"I'm aware," Will said, feeling the conversation suddenly shivering like quicksand underneath him. 

The gaze Hannibal turned on him was clear and direct. "Good. I think we should start our life together with as much honesty as we can stomach."

*

The meat was good. It melted on Will's tongue. They drank a decent Cote Du Rhone with it. Hannibal refilled his glass as he ate, and they both drank rather a lot. 

"It's delicious," Will said. 

Hannibal looked as pleased as if Will had paid him an extravagant compliment. They talked about Will's day, and Will told him about the gallery, the pencil drawings, and the woman who had invited him to her party.

"You turned her down?" Hannibal said. 

"I don't know her. I'm not interested in knowing her."

"She was interested in knowing you," Hannibal said. 

"I've no idea why."

Hannibal paused, glass in hand, seemingly caught for a moment in reflection. His mouth curved softly. "You don't know why? Couldn't she simply have found you attractive and acted on it?" 

"Physical attraction is meaningless." 

"Beauty has its own pleasure, short lived in some," Hannibal said. His gaze lingered on Will's face. "But it's the emotional component that strikes the sparks and builds the flame."

"It doesn't matter. I'm hardly likely to see her again."

"Perhaps. It's a small island." 

Will ducked his head and ate his lamb with _beauty_ resonating around his mind, spoken Hannibal's soft voice. He found he was hungrier than he'd realised, and the shearing of the meat was good between his teeth, desperately good. 

He put down his knife and fork, stomach turning suddenly. He swallowed, aware of Hannibal's eyes on him. "It tasted better than anything else I'd ever eaten. The meat you gave me. But I don't want to eat it again."

"Our future doesn't have to be determined by our pasts," Hannibal said, as he rose to clear their plates. 

Will didn't see how it could be anything else, but then, if he really believed that, what was he even doing here? He listened to Hannibal moving about behind him, stacking the dishwasher. There came the hollow suck of a cork being pulled out of another bottle. 

"Then what will it be?" Will said. "Cooking and fishing? Decorating the kitchen? Stamp collecting?"

"It doesn't sound so very bad. It sounds delightfully normal."

"But your past is disconnected from normal life. A future made of the mundane isn't going to satisfy you. 'Normal' was a costume you wore. You're unique."

"So are you," Hannibal said, coming to his elbow to pour him more wine. "Your companionship counts for far more than you seem to realise."

Will's skin heated at his words, and he was sure Hannibal could see it, could smell an iron tang, perhaps. They took their wine outside and sat under a canopy of stars.

"You're assuming that I want to stay with you," Will said, after the hush of the evening had seeped into the space between them. He could hear Hannibal's quiet slow out-breath. 

"You're here with me now. I feel the shape of how we could live. I think that you do, too. Are my assumptions wrong?" Hannibal sipped his wine, face tilted up to look at the sky. Light from indoors caught the smooth lines of his cheeks and jaw. 

Will couldn't answer. Hannibal wasn't wrong, but the idea of building his life with another man and everything that would entail - he didn't know what to do with that idea yet. In the chaotic mess that had been their departure from the US, he had put his inchoate longings for Hannibal firmly to one side. Will had never taken a male lover, and Hannibal had never so much as alluded to physical love. Probably didn't want to scare the wildlife. But it hung in the air between them, as real as the fluttering moths.

* 

Will rose the next morning with his head heavy with wine. He took up a towel and made his way outside to the pool. There was no sign that Hannibal was awake yet. 

Outside, the sun sent fresh golden beams of light across the water and, though its warmth was still that of early morning, it held a promise of scorching heat to come. 

The water, when he climbed in, had a reassuring stillness and it slid like cool silk over his naked body. He floated on his back and tried to let his mind be as still as the empty sky above him. But he was no good at quieting his thoughts, never had been, and they wound back to his current situation, via Molly, Alana, Abigail, Jack.

Hannibal announced his presence with the scent of coffee. Will raised his head and bobbed in the water, and watched Hannibal approach, slowly, with a tray bearing two coffee cups. He was dressed in a clean shirt and a pair of pressed linen pants, the same ones he'd travelled in. 

"How are you feeling?" Will asked.

"Wardrobe-deprived," Hannibal said. "I must do something about that soon." He set the tray down on the table and sat, carefully. His sketchbook and pencils were on the tray too.

"Well, it's obviously a priority," Will said, and was rewarded with an amused glance. "Are you going to draw?" he asked. 

"Yes. If the subject presents itself," Hannibal said, meeting his eyes. 

Will became acutely aware of his own nudity. He made himself move to the steps at the end of the pool. His wounds pulled as he waded out, water sluicing off him. He reached for his towel, back turned to Hannibal, aware he was probably enjoying the view. 

He wrapped himself in his towel and sat down at the table. The coffee was good, and he gulped it.

"Why haven't you gone down to the sea to swim?" Hannibal said. 

"I can't seem to make myself. I don't want to go in there again."

"You died once in salt water and were reborn. Do you believe that if you enter it again, it will take away what it gave?" 

He could always trust Hannibal to hit the nail squarely and hard on the head. "It sounds ridiculous. I'm like a watery version of _She."_

"It's a natural response. The sea is your enemy now, something to fear. Yet here you have us, surrounded by it. Why?"

"Why don't you tell me why? I can see you want to."

"Water is death. It's also life. Water is your fondly remembered past, your even keel. I would suggest to you that avoidance never got anyone anywhere very good. You need to get back in the water, Will. Live this new life you've been given."

"It hasn't exactly started well," Will said. 

"From that unfortunate detective's point of view, it certainly hasn't. But for you, it has."

"Is that all it takes, adopting the right point of view? And he wasn't unfortunate, he was out for his own glory. He was either too greedy or reckless to call for backup."

"Did you offer me to him?" Hannibal asked. 

His gaze held many things; curiosity, pride, and a vulnerable need that Will didn't think he'd ever seen before. It pulled a cord tight through Will's body.

"I made him a deal, my freedom for you. He fell for it hook, line and sinker. I barely even had to persuade him."

"He thought he could take you too, that you were weak." Hannibal's pupils had grown dark and wide even in this bright sunlight, betraying him. 

"How much do you remember?" Will said. Hannibal had been semi-conscious on the bed at that point.

"The calmness of your face. The small noise of exertion that you made as the knife slid home." Hannibal spoke almost dreamily, and there was a charge in his voice that made the hair on Will's arms rise. "The room smelled like struck metal, the same scent one finds in the air when forging steel. He thrashed and was difficult."

"Not difficult enough." Will had been nauseated and elated by turns, by both the ease of it and the seconds it had taken for that life to ebb away. It hadn't been like killing Dolarhyde. That had been … It had been a wild and loving consummation.

"You could have left me behind," Hannibal said. 

"I didn't want to. I still don't."

"I would have forgiven you." Then he looked down and away, unable to meet Will's eyes. "I would forgive you anything, now."

"You sure about that?" But he could see that Hannibal was. The look on his face was almost heartbroken. Perhaps it hurt him to realise that he'd tied his life to Will's, irrevocably. Will felt the urge to give him something in return, and for a moment he couldn't think of anything he could give, beyond what he already had. 

"I killed him for us," Will said. The admission came more easily than he expected. "So we could be safe." He took a breath and went on. "So I could keep you with me. The decision took less than a second. It was barely even a decision." Will stood, needing to shake off the memory. "Are you hungry? I'll make breakfast." 

He left Hannibal sitting in the sun, as still as a statue. 

*

"I still don't see why you can't survive with what we have," Will said, a few days later. He'd finally relented and was driving them into town so that Hannibal could buy clothes. He wound down the window and let the warm wind swirl into the car. It was fragrant with cypress. 

Hannibal smiled at the passenger window. "I haven't owned decent clothes for three years. I'd like to take the opportunity to indulge myself."

"And if we get caught because you can't deal with wearing the same shirt two days in a row?" Will said.

"We'll deal with it if and when it happens."

They left the car in one of the side streets. It was narrow and scattered with dogs, parked scooters and children. It didn't take long before they reached the main shopping district. They strolled shoulder to shoulder, close but not too close, blending with everyone else. They had both donned hats and sunglasses.

Hannibal led them into a small store that seemed to sell nothing but Ralph Lauren. 

"Seriously?" Will said. 

"The clothes are well made," said Hannibal. "Although a little bland for my tastes. You might find them suitable, though."

"I'll pass."

"You're going to need more clothes too," Hannibal said. "Can't wear the same things every day."

"Does it matter? Who's going to see me?"

Hannibal gave him a look as though Will might have grown very dim. "I will," he said, and turned away.

Inside, Will waited patiently, watching him flick through racks of shirts and slacks. Hannibal seemed absorbed by the activity. Like this, one could see how wholly his persona masked his true nature. Everyone would be fooled into thinking he was just a middle aged man buying shirts. Harmless. 

Hannibal was now studying socks and underwear. Will couldn't deny that they both needed more of such things, but the last person he'd shopped for underwear with had been Molly, throwing bundles of socks into the cart along with the weekly groceries. 

He closed his eyes briefly against the dislocation of his life. That was all gone, now. He relented and chose several light shirts, new shorts, and soft cotton t-shirts. He also grabbed a pair of swim shorts. 

Will waited while Hannibal paid, ignoring the glances of the several aimless young men who appeared to be working there. Back out on the street, Will took the bags from him. "You shouldn't be carrying anything," he said. Hannibal offered them up silently, with a curiously blank look. "Come on, let's get lunch."

"But there are more things I'd like to buy," Hannibal said, doubtfully.

"It's barely been a month since you were shot," Will muttered. "Do you really want me explaining that to the paramedics when you pass out in the street? Pick a restaurant."

They walked across a pretty square to the harbour, and Hannibal chose a small elegant looking place right on the water. The waiter seated them with a smile at a good table, and went off to fetch them menus. Will looked around, making it casual. He could see Hannibal doing the same. It was difficult not to. 

"Oh, hello again," said a voice at his shoulder. 

Will looked up. It was the woman from the gallery. Will remembered the name on the card she'd given him: Agata Panas. 

"I hope you're enjoying your stay?" She smiled down at him warmly, then at Hannibal, her gaze tracking between them. Will watched her making her assumptions. An expression of polite curiosity settled onto Hannibal's features. 

"We're still settling in," Will said. "But, yes." 

"You didn't tell me you'd made a friend," Hannibal said. "Aren't you going to introduce us?"

Will glared at him and could say nothing for a moment, then he offered up their fake names, anger sticking in his throat. Jonathan and Sven. Agata's smile faltered, but Hannibal rose to shake her hand. "Delighted to meet you. Ignore my dear friend, he can be an awful grump."

"Agata's from the gallery," Will ground out. Hannibal needed to shut up, but he didn't. Why drag her into whatever this was? But he knew why. Hannibal was amusing himself. 

"Are you an artist?" Hannibal said, with every appearance of delight. 

Agata laughed, waving away the suggestion. She had gold rings on her left hand, the only jewellery she wore. "No, not seriously. I merely attempt to corral them into exhibitions."

"But you do paint?" Hannibal asked.

"Often. It calms the mind. I run watercolour afternoons along with Jonas - he's the talented one - we travel all over the island to paint."

"That sounds delightful," Hannibal said. He smiled at Will. "I should send you off on one, Jonathan. Would you like that?" He even left a pause for a reply, as though Will would play his game. Will looked away. "Perhaps I'll go by myself, then." He sat down again, after laying a hand on Will's shoulder, a brief but unmistakable touch to signify attachment.

Thankfully Agata chose to bid them farewell at that point. A woman of some sense, clearly.

"What was all that for?" Will muttered, after she'd gone. He swallowed down his glass of champagne almost whole. The alcohol fizzed and stung against his inner cheek, but he didn't care. 

Hannibal went back to eating his bream. "I'd rather she remember us as an affable bickering couple rather than anything more sinister. Wouldn't you?" 

Will pinched the slim stem of the glass between his fingers, testing its smoothness. "Couple?" he said. 

"I thought you would approve. It will dissuade her from taking a more active interest in you." 

Will could find no argument against that.

*

They didn't mention Agata again. Summer hit hard, and the days passed in a sort of heated haze that Will was grateful for. The flagstones were scorching under his bare feet. Hot and dry, like this whole island. It was comforting, a memory winding through time. Summers in Louisiana had been furnace hot.

Hannibal had developed a light tan, and it suited him. Will's wounds hurt less now. The lack of pain was like shedding an iron cloak, leaving him more able to step lightly. Time was suspended, and their pasts and futures took on a vague and cloudy distance. It all hung between them, suspended on the air they breathed like dust motes. 

They contrived between them never to be far apart.

Will spent more time in the pool and would dry off on the loungers as Hannibal watched from the shade. Will would ask him apply lotion to those places he couldn't reach and sit very still under those light touches. 

"Do you want to draw me?" Will said one afternoon, as Hannibal rubbed lotion into his shoulders. The motion stopped. 

"I already have, many times," Hannibal said. He was so close that his breath was a noticeable gust on Will's skin. 

"Not from life."

"No. Although memory serves me excellently, it never can be as accurate as life." Hannibal slid his palm down Will's spine slowly, making Will's breath come short. "Now?" 

"Sure," Will said, managing to keep his voice level.

Hannibal fetched his sketchpad and box of pencils. 

"So, how do you want me?" Will said.

"Against the olives, standing. Do you object to posing naked?" His tone was so mild. 

"No," Will said. "I don't object. You've seen my naked body before." 

Hannibal paused. "I have. I have washed, dressed and tended it. You weren't conscious at those times, but now you're very much here." 

Will slid off his shorts and stood, fighting the urge to cover himself. Hannibal's eyes dropped to Will's abdominal scar. "It has healed well."

"It was a clean cut." 

Hannibal picked up his pad and selected a pencil and began to sketch. "Do you know contrapposto?" 

Will shifted his weight to one hip. "Anything else I should do?" 

Hannibal tilted his head, studying him. "Raise your right hand to your breast, please."

Will did, and Hannibal nodded in approval. He sketched silently, eyes flicking from Will to the paper, until Will could imagine himself becoming just another part of the landscape; inanimate, with no needs or wants, or none that mattered. He closed his eyes: was that what it was like to be Hannibal? To be the only moving figure in a landscape filled with statues? How good had it been for him to set eyes on another? 

Like finding a fellow survivor in a barren world. That's how it had felt for Will. His delight had been soft and secret, but no less heady for it.

Hannibal swept his pencil over the paper, studious and precise. He shaded something for a moment, then his gaze moved to Will's face. "Will you tell me your thoughts, Will?" 

Will looked down at his own willing nudity, his body scarred but still powerful. "Part of me wished I'd run with you that night. I thought about that a lot in the months after you left. When I came to your kitchen and found Abigail… " he stopped, tasting old blood. "I was going to come with you. Did you realise that?"

Hannibal's pencil stopped moving. He didn't look at Will. "No, I didn't know that." 

"If you'd told me about Abigail I would've thrown away everything for you." 

Nothing like putting it all out there. Hannibal laid down his pencil and closed the pad. His red brown eyes caught and held the sun, tiger-like.

"I may have made a mistake," Hannibal said. "At that point."

"We think we're in control, but we're not. You taught me that, slowly and carefully." Ancient rage bubbled up like methane from a bog, but Will had no use for it now and he let it go. "But you hid the truth from yourself. You began to slip out of control the day we met." He saw the hit that made, as if he'd inserted a fine blade between Hannibal's ribs.

Hannibal blinked. "Control is a sacrifice we lay at the feet of love."

For Hannibal, perhaps this was a defining element of love, as he understood it, to face down a slew of emotional reactions that he couldn't control, and to do it gladly. Perhaps that was the definition of love for everyone. But for Hannibal it must be far more terrifying. 

"It can be part of it. I'm not exactly an expert," Will said.

"You know just enough to get by," Hannibal said. "As do I."

Later, when Hannibal had gone to bed, Will crept out into the living room, to the desk where Hannibal kept his sketchpad. He turned the pages, past landscapes and seascapes, until he found the most recent. 

He stared. Hannibal had drawn him posed as Aphrodite on a seashell, blown by the winds, born naked.


	3. Chapter 3

The days grew hotter and shorter as summer rose to its height. Will drove into town at Hannibal's request and brought home books and music, ticking off the lists Hannibal had supplied him with. Hannibal even mooted the idea of ordering a harpsichord but Will vetoed it. 

"If Jack's looking for us he'll be checking harpsichord sales daily." It probably wasn't even much of an exaggeration. 

"If he's doing that, then he'll connect the dots to Milan soon enough." Hannibal put down his book, a blue leatherbound copy of Rochfoucauld's Pensees. Will had found it in a flea market on the edge of town. "If he indeed does believe we survived."

"If I were him I'd err on the side of caution, wouldn't you? He's looking for us." 

"And if he catches us?" 

"At least I'll know where you are, and you'll know where I am," Will said, with a sigh. 

Hannibal's smile was of soft delight. 

"Only you could look so happy about being locked up," Will said, but he couldn't help but smile back. 

He also brought home maps of the island. Hannibal was stronger every day, and, although he seemed content with his lot, he needed walks, Will decided, like any cooped up animal. 

"There's a monastery not far from here," Will said, one morning, climbing out of the pool. 

Hannibal was sitting at the table, drinking coffee and pretending not to watch him. He barely let Will out of his sight now, most days. 

Will sat down opposite, dripping pool water onto the flagstones. His shoulder ached only a little, and the coffee was good. Contentment settled over him, an odd and simple feeling that seemed to still everything inside him. 

"It has the remains of a Byzantine mosaic. Want to go?"

"By car?"

"On foot," Will said. It looked to be only a couple of miles, although most of that was uphill. "Can you manage it?" 

"Am I to be exercised like one of your dogs?" 

"Pretty much," Will said. "Have you got a complaint about that?"

Hannibal gave him a wry smile. "Believe it or not, I used to hike a lot when I was a young man. I would go out of the city to follow the reggellese, an ancient road, or up into the Montecerceri hills. I found as much freedom and beauty there as I did in within the city walls."

When Hannibal was _Il Mostro_. What kinds of freedom and beauty had he perpetrated on those walks? Will could guess. He swallowed down his coffee and stared at Hannibal's fine-cut profile and saw the cruel young man there. 

The walk was gentle enough, along a dirt road that wound up the mountainside, although mountain was far too grand a name for it. Will set a faster pace than he'd intended, fueled by his old anger. Hannibal didn't complain, but, by the time they reached the top, he was sweating and a little grey under his tan. There were damp patches under his arms, and his chest heaved. 

The satisfaction of cruelty now left Will cold, as he should have known it would. Will handed him a bottle of water and led them to a wooden bench that sat in the shade of an olive tree.

"Sit."

"I'm fine," Hannibal said, but he took a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed hard at his brow, and drank half the water in one long swallow. In front of the them stood the church, a small squat white-painted building surrounded by a low wall, and a paved courtyard. From the wall there were views of the distant coastline and a rough jumble of parched hills. There were no other tourists. A starved looking ginger cat sat on the wall nearby. Its tail was a stump, still raw. Will looked away. 

A priest came out of the church, a short man with a sparse black beard and long black robes. He appeared to contemplate them for a few moments, then came to Hannibal and spoke a few words. Hannibal spoke back, briefly, and the priest nodded and left. 

"What was all that about?"

Hannibal's breathing had slowed, and colour was coming back to his cheeks. "Pilgrims can kiss the foot of Saint Arsenios to cure their illness." He turned his face to Will. "I told him I wasn't ill." 

Will took the water from him and drank. Hannibal's fingers brushed his as he took the bottle and they were warm and damp. He'd conceptualised the Ripper as a sick thing, stricken at birth with catastrophic deformities. But that was before he'd truly known Hannibal, and that idea had no currency now in his heart. How could it, after all those months and years of longing for him? 

The cat jumped down from the wall and made its way across the courtyard towards them.

"Hello," Hannibal said, and leaned down to scratch behind its ear. It raised its small pointed face to him and began to purr. 

"Looks half starved," Will said. 

"Maybe it has eaten all the available mice? I imagine tourists feed it sometimes."

Will took out the tupperware that Hannibal had carefully packed before they left. He found carefully wrapped cooked fish and a salad. He broke off a piece of fish and gave it to the cat. Hannibal watched him in silence. 

"The cat has a greater need," Will said. "Come on, it's only a piece of fish."

"I agree. Every animal deserves to be fed."

Hannibal lived in a world turned upside down, where humans were food and animals were friends.

"And humans?"

"Humans are also animals."

The church was dark inside. The air smelled sweet with incense and candle wax. They walked side by side along the aisle to the altar. This place was nothing like the Capella Palatina, but Will was overwhelmed with memory as they looked up at the half destroyed mosaic of Christ Pantokrator. His wide blue eyes stared down, half enraged, half desperate.

"Feels like he's judging us," Will said. 

"What would he pronounce?"

"Let's just say we wouldn't be strolling in through the pearly gates."

Hannibal made an amused sound. He was very close, his shoulder almost brushing Will's. He turned his head to see that Hannibal had closed his eyes. Tears glittered along his lashes. 

"Have you ever been lonely, Will?" Hannibal said. 

"I used to think I was immune. Until I met you." The words stuck in his throat but he needed to say them. "I hated you. But I ached for the man I thought you were."

"I am that man, still."

His words seemed to fill the vaulted ceiling with screams and blood. Saint Arsenios stood nearby, watching them from a plinth, his bronze face gleaming darkly. His left foot was brighter than the rest of him. They walked to the votives, Hannibal a silent presence at his side, his tame monster. Will dropped some coins into the box and they lit one each. 

"For Abigail," he said. 

"And for Mischa." Hannibal touched the taper to the wick and a small flame danced up. "In Florence as a young man, I'd climb up to the top of the hill and look out over the city at night. Each lit window drew me, excited the passion within me, as an artist regards a blank canvas or an open space."

Will could see it, young Hannibal sitting on damp grass, his hiking boots rimed with dust, staring down at the city expressionlessly, his heart full yet empty. Will ached for the young man he had been, and for the child before that.

"You were lonely. You always have been." 

"On the contrary, I had intimacy, I had friends."

Will snorted. "Intimacy with your victim's guts, and people who were shown a small fragment of you, the part you cared to show them."

"I only showed you a small part of me, at first." 

"I was the only one who could ever see the whole. And you yearned to be seen, didn't you? You'd spent decades alone, and your passions turned into hobbies. You were desperate for me."

Hannibal was silent for a long time, chin dipping down. "I saw the possibility of our friendship," he said, finally. "I admitted as much to Dr Du Maurier. She was somewhat sceptical about my abilities in that field, and yours. She believed neither us properly understood the concept."

"Good old Bedelia, she knew what was up." It had only taken prison and a few attempted murders and now here they were. "Am I your friend, Hannibal?"

There was no hesitation in Hannibal's answer, and he spoke it with courtroom clarity. "You will always be my friend, Will."

"Even though neither of us really gets the concept?"

"We have time to work on it," Hannibal said earnestly.

The pure seriousness on his face drew a smile from Will. Hannibal looked up as the door opened. A small party of tourists stepped in and began looking around. Their talk was soft, but it still sounded too loud. Their eyes met in an unspoken agreement. Time to leave. 

"Are you hungry?" Hannibal said. 

Will was, and they made their way outside. The cat was waiting for them. It followed them as they strolled around the wall, taking in the views. They found a place to sit, and Hannibal took out their lunch. He'd packed a bottle of white in a small cooler sleeve. The bright acidic bite of it washed away the dust of the church.

"How did you meet her?" Will asked, around bites of fish and salad.

"Bedelia? We met at a conference at Johns Hopkins, just before I left. I found her quite… inspiring."

It wasn't hard to read between the lines. "You made the decision to take up psychiatry because of her?" He strangled his jealousy, choking it down as he drank another mouthful of wine.

Hannibal gave him an appraising glance, as if he knew that Will and Bedelia had squabbled like mistresses over a faithless lover, and wasn't that an image to conjure with.

"Her mind was as opaque and finely formed as quartz. The temptation to tap at it, to find the fracture lines, was irresistible. So yes, you could call her an inspiration."

Will envisaged a succession of brains, dissolving into so much mud under Hannibal's care. "Bedelia's mind is as tough as old boots," Will said. "Not everyone is so lucky. You told me once that you gave up surgery because someone died." He looked up at Hannibal. "Was that a lie?"

"No," Hannibal said. Down at his feet, the cat was sitting, staring up at him. Hannibal leaned down to stroke behind its right ear. "Her name was Patricia Wright and she was seven years old. I was performing a kidney transplant. By that point it had become almost a routine operation for me. I made a mistake and she died on the table." 

"I'm sorry she died."

"As was I." Hannibal's voice was low and soft. "She looked so much like Mischa, down the shape of her eyes and mouth, the way she held her head, and I couldn't resist the urge to save her. I should never have allowed myself to take her as a patient. Surgery requires detachment." He turned away to look out over the view to the town. "Perhaps my mind wasn't as detached as I thought."

Hannibal had a made place for everything in his life except his heart. He had been absolutely blind to the push and pull of his own emotions for much of his life. Will wanted to take his hand. "Did you grieve for her?"

"No." Hannibal frowned. "I had no feelings for the child. She was a cypher. Of course, the department were sorry to lose me but my colleagues understood, or at least assumed they did." He ran a hand over the cat's back, long fingers pressing its spine, assessing the damage, and sighed. "This animal requires a vet."

Will looked around. "I think they've abandoned it to the will of God." 

Hannibal gave it more fish, then scooped it up and tucked it under his arm. The car purred. "Shall we go?"

"You're seriously going to steal the monastery's cat?"

"It will die otherwise. Its tail is quite badly infected." Hannibal shrugged. "It'll find its way back if it chooses. Would you prefer to let it die?" 

Here they were at Du Maurier's Wounded Bird Conundrum yet again.

"Would you?" he asked, curiously.

"Of course not," Hannibal said, with a small smile. 

Will ducked his head at the notion of Hannibal Lecter, collector of strays, but his heart beat faster, and the vision of Hannibal as such a person set a lump in his throat. He quickly packed away the remains of their lunch and set off to follow him.

*

Will woke to the faint sound of water splashing. He lay on his back staring up at the white ceiling, pulling his mind back slowly to the present. He'd dreamed that they were still on the Atlantic, sealed inside that tin can of a boat, except that Hannibal had been Molly, lying on the single bunk with hands caked in dried blood, and she'd been asking him Why? Why? 

She'd wanted to know why she didn't know him, even now. Will hadn't had an answer. 

Hannibal had only existed for Molly as a bad dream, ill-remembered on waking. Will had kept his true feelings about Hannibal to himself. Looking back, he had hoarded them fiercely, had locked her out of his most private thoughts. He sat up and rubbed at his eyes, his heart heavy. If he could find a way to give her resolution, he would. 

He collected a clean towel and made his way out to the pool. The splashing grew louder, and he soon saw the cause of it. Hannibal was swimming lengths, his movements slow yet strong, moving without so much as a hitch. Will stopped, caught up in the sight of him. Water slicked off his powerful shoulders and the backs of his thighs, and each rotation of his arms sent a fine spray of water across the surface. He moved well. He looked good.

Will watched for what he knew was too long a time. Hannibal's body was distorted, seen this way, made of Picasso-like angles and lines. If he squinted, those blurred lines could almost be feathers, and he could turn Hannibal into a plumed bird, diving below the water after a fish, or after Will. Hannibal and not-Hannibal. Bird-Hannibal swelled to fill his consciousness, hungering after him. How good it would feel to be swallowed whole by this plumed beast.

"Will?" he heard Hannibal say. "Are you all right?" 

He had his elbows propped on the edge of the pool, his hair slicked back like a neat brown cap, an expression of interest on his face. Will blinked.

"Yeah. I'm fine."

In the kitchen, the cat wound round his ankles. Will checked its bowls. There were remnants of fresh chicken in there, leftovers from last night. The water was fresh. Hannibal must have fed it as soon as he woke. 

"You're not getting a double breakfast," Will told it. "So stop trying."

He started coffee. The pool guys were due today, sometime in the afternoon. He should encourage Hannibal to either stay in the house or go to the beach. The cat tried to jump up onto the counter. 

"Shoo," Will said. 

"We should really give her a name."

Hannibal stood in the doorway, his lower half wrapped in a towel. Water dripped from his hair onto his shoulders. It stood in beads on his arms and chest. Will turned away. 

"How about 'Pain in the Ass'?"

"I was thinking of something a little more poetic." 

"She's the same colour as the marigolds that Nikos grows near his tomatoes." 

"Marigold," Hannibal said. "A deterrent of pests. That seems fitting." 

"At least we'll be rat free," Will said, more grumpily than he felt. Marigold. He looked down at her. Her tail stump was dressed in a neat white bandage. He'd had to wrap her in a towel to hold her still, watching Hannibal work as precisely and as carefully as he had on Will. She'd still managed to claw him.

Later, after his own swim and breakfast, he heard the sound of metal hammering against metal. He wandered out through the gate and saw Nikos bashing at the engine of a small tractor outside his concrete bunker. He watched him try to get it going five times then walked over. 

"'Morning. Having trouble?" he said.

Nikos looked up at him, frowning. He had little English, about as much as Will had of Greek, but Will managed to convince him to let him look under the hood. He saw the problem almost immediately; the fuel line was clogged and the housing was cracked. One he could fix easily, the other would take more time. Nikos peered in with him, enlightenment dawning as Will gesticulated. 

Nikos disappeared into his bunker and after some crashing sounds came back out with a fuel pump. Not new, but obviously reclaimed from some defunct machine. It'd do for now. Fitting it took around an hour. Will breathed in the smell of oil and hot metal and almost expected his dad's voice in his ear. For the first time since he'd left Maine he was doing something useful. 

No, for the first time since he'd killed Dolarhyde. He gripped the wrench in his hand too hard and almost sheared off a bolt head. A stab of pain shot through his shoulder and he swore silently, head bent down.

"Thank you," Nikos said, when he'd done. He shook Will's hand and handed him a huge bag of tomatoes. "Come back tomorrow. I'll give you a job," he said, grinning. Will was only half certain it was a joke.

*

He found Hannibal at the kitchen table. His tablet seemed to show some sort of bank account. Will looked away quickly and plunked the bag down on the table.

"I hope you like tomatoes."

"Engine oil," Hannibal said. "Are you getting back to your old habits? It hasn't taken you long." He raised his head, and paused. "You look a little pale. Are you all right?" 

"It's nothing."

"Will."

"I wrenched my shoulder fixing Nikos's tractor." It throbbed now, as if he'd torn something.

"I'll take a look." 

"No, I'm okay, really."

"Then perhaps you'd like to leave it, let a complication set in, and make it far worse?"

"Fine. Jesus."

Will unbuttoned his shirt while Hannibal fetched his medical kit. There were oil stains on the front. He'd ruined it. Hannibal looked over the wound, handling Will with the lightest of touches. 

"You've torn the wound open a little. It will heal, but it'll be sore for a few days. Here, let me. You should sit." He cleaned it and then dabbed cream on it. He bound on a fresh dressing over the shoulder, and Will sat quietly, listening to Hannibal's breathing, so close by that it almost felt like his own. He turned his head a little so they would be sharing air. Hannibal paused, hands resting gently on Will's shoulder.

"The pool guys are coming soon," Will said. 

"Then I shall do as you imply and make myself scarce. I'll go to the beach." He pressed Will's shoulders then took his hands away. "Perhaps I'll explore the headland. There's a path there. Would you like to come? Two absent faces are better than one, after all."

Will hesitated. His shoulder ached but the thought of a walk, getting to know their surroundings, together, drew him. "Okay."

*

There was a rough path that rose up through sun-spattered pine woods. Will walked behind Hannibal, watching the oddly purposeful swing of his gait. He always looked like he knew where he was going. Will smiled to himself. 

On their left, the sea sloshed against rocks, swimming pool blue, and filled small coves. They followed the trail for maybe an hour. It diverged in places, leading off up the wooded hill to other houses presumably, until it wound back down to another beach, shorter than their own. It was a beautiful bay. Several houses were tucked along it, set back in greenery, and stick figures wandered in the distance. A couple of boats were moored at a small landing stage.

"Civilisation at last," Hannibal said, drily. He surveyed the beach, gaze sticking on the people. 

"We should go back."

Hannibal turned to look at him. "For our safety, or theirs?" 

Sweat beaded Hannibal's upper lip, and he dabbed at it with a handkerchief. It was easy to forget that they'd only been here a few weeks, and that Hannibal wasn't exactly fit. 

"Both."

Hannibal nodded. He drew out a glass bottle of water and handed it to Will.

"Drink, you need it," he said. 

"So do you."

They shared it, taking turns. Hannibal had also packed some fruit, melon slices, carefully fanned in their Tupperware casing. Will raised his brows but took one. "You just can't help yourself, can you?" 

"Presentation is everything, Will." 

They finished and were turning to go when voices rang out from the woods and two figures emerged: a woman and a young man. Will's heart dropped like a stone. It was Agata. Hannibal stepped forward with a smile, all charm. 

"Agata, isn't it?" he said, as if he might not be sure. But of course he was sure. Hannibal forgot nothing. Will watched, reluctantly fascinated. "How enchanting to see you here." He took her hand lightly. "Emerging like a nymph from the forest."

"Oh, Sven. You are a charmer," she said, sounding delighted. "Hello again. Hello, Jonathan. If I'm a nymph, does that mean Jan is a faun?" She indicated the tall young man next to her. 

"No, a horny satyr," Jan said. His accent was not dissimilar to Hannibal's. He was very handsome in the clear pale way that Scandinavians could be, and knew it. He slid his arm around Agata's waist, squeezing. His hand wandered around the curve there, a crass display of affection. He meet Hannibal's eyes for several seconds too long, smiling. 

"Do I know you?" Jan said. "You look familiar."

"No, I think not. I would certainly remember such a handsome face," said Hannibal. 

Agata cleared her throat. "Don't mind Jan, he's an artist. We're just on our way home. It's almost cocktail time, don't you think?"

"Oh, do you live here?" Hannibal said.

"Only in summer. In winter I go back to the mainland."

"And I go wherever I like," Jan said. He met Hannibal's gaze again, smirking. "I have to be free."

"One must appreciate every second of freedom," Hannibal said. "It can be so easily lost."

"Why don't you come along now and join us for a drink?" Agata said, with an amused glance at Jan.

"No. We've got to get back," Will said, before Hannibal could open his mouth.

"Unfortunately we do," Hannibal said, after a brief pause. He smiled at Agata and then at Jan. He put a hand on Will's shoulder, and Will had to fight not to shrug it off. "But we'd love for you to join us for lunch one day soon. Perhaps Sunday? We're staying at the villa past the headland."

"Sven," Will muttered.

"Marvellous," Agata said. 

*

They walked back, both taking it slowly now in the close iron heat of the afternoon. Will's shoulder throbbed and, with each step, his fear of what Hannibal might be thinking or planning grew. With fear came memories in a torrid rush. He relived the sick slide of his knife into Dolarhyde's stomach, and his own knuckles on Tier's face, an unending tattoo beat out on a drum of skin. He'd opened up that policeman in Milan easily and quickly. His own murders. All his own work. 

They were halfway home when Will stopped under the long dark arms of an old fir, a scream fighting to escape his chest. "Hannibal."

He supposed his panic must be clear in his voice. Hannibal was at his side in a moment.

"Tell me," he said softly, intimately. 

"He recognised you."

"No, I am sure he didn't," Hannibal said. "But what if he did? What then, Will?"

"Don't hurt them." He hadn't meant to beg, but it came out that way. 

Hannibal's eyes were like clear glass, unreadable once but not now. Will could see inside. "I would like to hurt him," Hannibal said, in the voice of a lover, soft and close. "You know that. I'd like you to help me."

Will drew in a breath, and the hard packed dirt under his feet seemed to tilt. "I won't. I can't." The air between them seemed not enough, too thin. He also saw that Hannibal was excited, his pupils wide, his lips parted. Will's knees went to water. "Hannibal," he said. 

"Wouldn't you like to follow them home? We could surprise them. Close your eyes. Can you feel their heartbeats shaking the atoms between us and them? The connection?"

"Yes," he whispered. Will felt unmanned, as if he'd been waiting for this. All Hannibal had to do was to suggest it, to entice, and here he was shaking like a leaf in a storm. Hannibal had something on his skin, a scent; it smelled like sandalwood. He was at Will's shoulder.

"We could remake them, atom by atom, into something glorious. We could do it together. Our first symphony."

"It's not what I want to be," Will said desperately.

"It's part of you." Hannibal's breath was warm on his neck, as if he were going to kiss Will there. "You must accept it."

"Please, Hannibal." He was begging now, and couldn't make himself hide it. 

"You were never more whole than you were that night, when you came into my arms, red with his blood, my blood, yours. I thought I would never live to see it. You were perfect, the loveliest thing I have ever seen."

"Stop." Silence. Will closed his eyes, fighting for air. "You can't seduce me into this." 

He wasn't even sure that was true. He turned around to find Hannibal gazing at him, dark eyed and hungry, just as he had on the night they'd dispatched Dolarhyde. He realised distantly that Hannibal wasn't toying, that this wasn't either a glib seduction or a game. Hannibal meant every word. 

Hannibal lifted a hand to Will's face, barely touching, and stroked his thumb over his cheekbone. Will stopped breathing. All the wood seemed to hold its breath too, as if waiting for either a kiss or a snapped neck. He hardly knew what to expect.

"What will it take?" Hannibal said. A patch of sunlight danced on his temple, as if God had trained a gunsight on him. "I've tried so very hard."

"I killed a man to protect you. We killed Dolarhyde. Isn't that enough?" His voice broke on the last word. 

"It's human nature to crave more of that which nourishes us." Hannibal was very close. Tiny strands of hair were sticking to his skin. "I will always want more of you, as much as you will give me." His palm was damp and tender on Will's cheek. Will could see the pulse at his temple, cruelly highlighted by the sun. It was fast, which suggested that Hannibal's responses were out of his control. Distantly, Will was fascinated. What did that feel like for him?

This was love, for Hannibal. All-consuming, drowning-in-it love. What had Will thought Hannibal wanted? To sit around discussing human nature and eating gourmet dinners? No, Hannibal wanted everything from him, every intimacy there was, inside and out.

The idea terrified him, still. To either have that control over Hannibal, or to hand it over to him. But why else was he here? Why else had he bound himself to Hannibal, unless it was to take possession of him?

"Hannibal, I can't," he said. 

"Then neither will I," Hannibal said. He turned and walked off into the trees alone.

*

Will made it home, and Hannibal wasn't there. Shit. He waited, nerves flayed. After the second hour, he took a kitchen knife from the rack and was ready to go looking. Marigold wound round his ankles as if with her own death wish and then ran yowling to the front door as it opened and closed. 

Hannibal came into the kitchen, and looked from Will's face to the kitchen knife. 

"What did you do?" Will said, breathless. 

"Nothing. Just as I said. Excuse me."

He disappeared into his own room. He came out much later and began cooking.

Will poured himself a large whisky and drank it, then went to the kitchen door and watched him work. Hannibal ignored him.

"Are we going to pretend that conversation never happened?"

Hannibal looked over his shoulder, his fingers buried in pastry. He didn't meet Will's eyes. There was still something raw about his expression. "No, but I would prefer not to discuss it."

"Fine."

"Do you have a preference for fish or pork?" Hannibal asked, then, in a soft calm voice. "I can't decide what to feed our guests and I should order the meat in tomorrow." 

"Hannibal." Will rubbed at his forehead. A headache was crawling into his skull, claws out. The whisky hadn't helped. He could still see the curiosity in Jan's face when he'd first looked at Hannibal. What if he really had recognised him? "I don't want them here."

"Some company would be diverting," Hannibal said, rather flatly.

The idea of an upset and frustrated Hannibal seemed somehow even more dangerous than the alternative. One brief lunch probably couldn't hurt. Will sighed. 

"Fine. Have it your way. And let's have fish," he said, as he left.


	4. Chapter 4

A small silver car came down the driveway on Sunday at the specified time. He and Hannibal stood at the door to greet them, like a normal couple. It gave Will mental whiplash. Hannibal had put on a pale linen suit and a bowtie. Will had relented and put on a clean shirt, a blue one that Hannibal had chosen for him. 

They had decided to pose as academics, taking a sabbatical on the island to write their books. Will gritted his teeth as Jan and Agata got out of their car and the greetings began. 

They ate on the shady terrace. Lunch was bearable, mostly because Hannibal served ice-cold brandy and champagne cocktails. Will drank his too fast. Hannibal avoided his eyes and poured him another. Jan quickly became rather drunk, and Agata and Hannibal propped up the conversation with a long discussion of De la Tour and Caravaggio and their use of light. 

"He tries, but he can't take his drink," Agata said, after Hannibal had cleared the plates, but she seemed tolerant, as if with a puppy that had a tendency to wet the carpet. 

"On the contrary, I'll take this drink," Jan said, and took up a fresh glass of champagne.

"Time for dessert, I think," said Hannibal. He didn't look at Will. "Jan, would you like to help me?" 

"Sure, Sven."

Will couldn't help glancing over his shoulder at them as they went into the house. He wished he hadn't; Hannibal's hand was on the small of Jan's back, resting there lightly. He turned back to find Agata giving him a speculative glance. She gave him a wry smile.

"They look good together, don't they?" she said. 

He didn't like the way she was watching him, as if waiting for a cue. He shrugged. They did, but he couldn't bring himself to say it. 

"Have we come at a bad time, Jonathan?" she asked, quietly. "I feel like we've walked into a long running argument."

"In a manner of speaking." 

"I'm sorry." Agata watched him a little longer, then obviously decided to change the conversation. "So, Sven tells me you're both academics?"

Will spun her a story based on half truths, hating himself. The first time he'd ever been caught lying, he'd been seven, and his dad had beaten him on the ass with a slipper. Not hard, but enough to sting and to make Will cry. He'd told his new class that his dad worked in a bank, not in a boatyard. 

"You don't strike me as an academic, or at least a happy one," she said. "You seem more like one of life's do-ers."

"What makes you say that?"

"The oil under your fingernails," she said. "You have muscles too," she added, with a soft smile.

After a strangled silence, Hannibal and Jan came back bearing small bowls of sorbet. Hannibal looked between them. 

"You both look like you need a palate cleanser," he said.

"Thanks," Will muttered. 

"You have the most amazing bone structure," Jan said to Hannibal. He licked sorbet off his spoon, pink tongue flicking out. "I'm dying to get you down on paper."

"Then you should," Hannibal said. His smile was pure charm, as if he were enchanted. Perhaps he was. Jan was practically tap dancing all over his ego. "I always find it's best to let my creative urges flow whenever they need to." 

"Quite right," Agata said. "Here, use this," she said, and pushed a pencil and napkin at Jan. "He's a superb draughtsman, you'll see." 

Jan took little more than a minute or two to sketch Hannibal, just his head and shoulders. He held it up for them to see. It was exquisite, just a few powerful lines capturing Hannibal's cool assessing gaze coupled with amusement, and the way he held his head. It was also perfectly recognisable to anyone looking for them. 

"Can I have it?" Will said bluntly. 

Jan hesitated, his pale eyes cloudy. "Well. Okay, man. I'll sign it for you."

Will almost told him not to bother, but bit it back. He took it and folded it in half next to his plate.

"Like Picasso with his napkin, perhaps it will become valuable in the future," Hannibal said. "Now, who's for coffee?" 

They took it in the living room, where the air conditioning was set so low that Will shivered. There was a polished wooden desk at one end, and Hannibal had laid out his sketchbook on it.

"Will you show us, Sven?" Agata said, with raised brows and a smile. "I'm so curious to see your work." 

"It would be my pleasure," Hannibal said, and led her over. Jan trailed behind, gaze fixed on Hannibal so completely that Will might have not been there. 

"Oh," she gasped, as Hannibal opened the book. Most of the drawings were landscapes. To Will's relief he closed the book before Agata reached the others. "These are… Well, these are exquisite. Are you sure you don't want to exhibit?"

"I prefer to keep my work for friends and family," Hannibal said. "Would you like me to refill your glass?"

They had moved away from the desk, to Will's relief, when behind them Jan gave a low whistle. "Wow." He'd re-opened the sketch book to the drawings of Will transfigured into Aphrodite. "This is so freaky. It's cool though."

Hannibal moved swiftly over and gripped his wrist with a small smile. Jan didn't seem to mind. "These are personal," he said. "Excuse me." 

"Why don't you draw me?" Jan said. "If you want a younger model?" He shot a smug leering look over to Will. "Call me. I'm free on Wednesday."

Hannibal's smile showed teeth. "Perhaps we could have a sketching trip, just you and I. I would be delighted to see more of your work."

"Jan, don't be an asshole," Agata said, frowning at him. "He can be a spoiled brat when he wants."

"I'm sure we'll get along just fine," Hannibal said. 

A image unfolded in Will's mind of Hannibal ripping the guts from this idiot man, and it didn't entirely displease him.

"I have a headache," he snapped, and left them. He went to his room and lay down, skin damp with cold sweat. Goodbyes were said, then the front door closed. Wheels crunched on gravel as they left. 

Hannibal knocked on his door a little while later. "Will?" 

"Come in," Will said, sitting up. He'd lied about the headache but now it was true. Claws dug into his temples. 

Hannibal entered, carrying a tray with a glass of water and two white pills. 

"What are they?" 

"Painkillers," Hannibal said, somewhat diffidently. "I thought you might need them." 

Will snatched them up ungraciously and swallowed them down with water. "Thanks," he muttered. His throat felt full of poison. "So, did you enjoy the company? Was it diverting?"

"He has a marvellous talent, don't you think?" Hannibal said. He walked to the window and surveyed the bougainvillea. "I'm rather pleased to make his acquaintance."

Will balanced his elbows on his knees and massaged his temples. "What are you doing, Hannibal?"

"Are you angry with me, or with yourself?" He came closer, the lightness dropping from his voice into something more urgent, much rougher. "Are you enraged with yourself knowing what you want? Can you see it, Will?"

"Don't."

"My hands sheathed in his blood. How would that look to you? Your hands too. Together." 

Will shook his head, but want for it trembled in his belly, low down. "Get out," he gritted. "Get out."

*

"Where is it?" Will said, the next day. Hannibal had cleared the table by himself. The napkin with his portrait on it was gone. "Did you throw it in the garbage?" 

Hannibal gave him a slight frown. "I did not. Oh, do you think our friend Jan reclaimed it?"

"Damn it." That was just great. 

"Well, perhaps we should visit and ask for it back?" 

Will couldn't find it in himself to reply. He was afraid of what might happen if he did. He might agree to anything Hannibal suggested. 

They spent the day in distant silence. 

Will rose the next morning to find that Hannibal had gone. He checked his room, the swimming pool, and walked down through the shady olive grove to the beach. It was empty. The car was gone too. Fuck. Fuck. He trotted back inside and saw a note propped on the dining table that he'd missed before. 

Gone shopping

"Shit," Will muttered. Marigold yowled at him in agreement. Will checked her bowls, and saw that Hannibal must have fed her before he left. Fragments of fresh fish were stuck to the bowl. He scratched her skinny neck. She'd moved up a step from being a bag of bones to merely thin. "Next time, bite his ankles," he told her, and she purred. 

Will made himself swim in the pool. He ate breakfast and checked his phone again and again. Nothing. He called Hannibal's phone, the same prepaid one they'd bought at the airport, but it went straight through to the automated message service. Scenarios presented themselves: Hannibal wringing Jan's neck, Hannibal being gunned down by a squad of armed police. Hannibal lost in the quiet pleasure of someone else's death. 

When the doorbell rang it raised the hairs all over his body. 

It was Nikos. "Hello," he said, in his heavy accent. He stood stoutly but with an air of awkwardness. "My, ah, pump has broken down again. Can you help me?" 

"Sure. I'd be glad to." At least it'd give him something else to think about. 

Nikos led him across the olive grove to his concrete shack. Waiting there was a man he'd never seen before, somewhere in his twenties, dressed in jeans and trainers and an oil stained t-shirt. He was sitting on a pile of breeze blocks and was smoking a cigarette.

"My nephew," Nikos said, with a brief wave of his hand. "He is visiting." The nephew nodded curtly, barely looking up from his phone. He tapped away at it. His hands were clean and soft-looking, nothing like Nikos's dirt-grained callused ones.

The pump ran water from a nearby spring to Nikos's lemon grove further along the road. Will surveyed it; it had to be at least thirty years old and looked like it hadn't been cleaned out for that long. 

"It's probably got dirt in the filters," he said. "I'll need to take it apart." 

They both watched him. Nikos commandeered his usual plastic garden chair while his nephew smoked and sent endless text messages. There was dirt, but not so much of it that it would stop the thing working. He cleaned it anyway, then oiled it and put it back together, then gestured to Nikos to run it. It chugged to life, whirring as smoothly as it was ever going to. The whole thing had taken less than an hour. 

"Thank you," Nikos said. He stumped away and came back with another bulging bag of tomatoes, and a bunch of rosemary. 

Will looked at it quizzically. 

"For your friend," Nikos said, with a faltering smile. "He came to talk to me one time. He cooks. He wanted this."

Great. Hannibal had been meeting and greeting the whole damn neighbourhood. "Thanks," Will said, with a sigh. 

Nikos shook Will's hand too, this time, a hard squeeze that reminded Will of his dad. The nephew, still nameless, merely nodded. He met Will's eyes once, but quickly looked away. 

Will trudged back over to the house. As he rounded the corner he saw that the car was back. The wave of relief was almost nauseating. Hannibal was in the kitchen, unloading numerous bags. 

"Fresh red snapper from the harbour," Hannibal said, putting down a white paper packet. He turned and gave Will a happy smile, as if all woes and arguments were forgotten. "They have turtles in the harbour here that have lived over a 100 years. Turtles that have lived through two world wars."

"I could've gotten all this stuff from the Megamart," Will said. "You shouldn't have gone out. Eventually someone's going to recognise you. You should never have talked to the old guy."

"What's life without a little risk?" He took a look at Will, up and down, slowly. It bought a flush to Will's cheeks. "What have you been doing?"

"Nikos's pump broke down. I fixed it." 

"He should start paying you a fee."

"Hannibal. Be careful." He swallowed around his dusty tongue. "Please."

Hannibal looked down at his shopping. "I am trying. Now, what would you like for lunch?" 

They ate on the shade-dappled terrace. Hannibal had used the tomatoes together with a fresh local cheese. They tasted like earth and sunshine. 

"I found Agata's gallery," Hannibal said. "I looked in to say hello. I apologised for your abrupt departure after lunch. She's a charming woman." Hannibal took a bite of food. "You like her."

Hannibal's voice was brittle. Brittle things tended to snap. "I do. She doesn't deserve to get mixed up with us."

"Too late for that I'm afraid. Can you imagine a life with her?"

Will stared. It took him a moment to realise what Hannibal was asking him, and when he did he could hardly form the words. "Are you jealous of her?"

Hannibal paused. "Yes."

"What would you do if I did anything with her?" 

Hannibal laid down his knife and fork. "I don't know. In the past, I would have known. I would have done nothing because I wouldn't have cared." 

Will sat back, fear for Agata mixing with a sick sort of triumph. "Why do you feel the need to flirt with Jan in front of me?"

"Do I?"

"You know you do. You care. You want to make me jealous in return."

Hannibal touched a finger to a slightly out of place spoon, pushing it straight. "Are you?" he asked, finally.

The afternoon heat seemed to thicken around him, suffocating, and his anger was giving him a fresh headache, a sort of dull aching throb. "Please, don't hurt her." How many times had Hannibal heard that, a wretched plea in the last few ragged moments of consciousness, and ignored it?

Hannibal didn't reply, instead reached into his pocket and brought out a small leather case. "I bought you a little something," he said, pushing it over to Will. 

Will opened it. Inside were a set of keys. Will took them out. "What's this for?" he asked, although he had half guessed. The keys had a fob made of a twisted rope knot.

"A boat. It's yours, in your name. Well, your assumed name." 

"You bought it this morning?"

"It's why I went out. The fish was a bonus." Hannibal pushed over a fat envelope holding the documentation and the license. "Second hand, I'm afraid," Hannibal said. "It's all yours. Ready to go. You said you wanted one."

Will opened the envelope with fingers that felt numb. It was all in order. It dawned on him what this was, what Hannibal was doing. He looked up at Hannibal, who was waiting, face perfectly blank, the same look he got when he was in physical pain. "Are you… telling me to leave?".

"It might be your best option."

"Why?" he managed.

Hannibal was very still. "I've become unpredictable." He looked away. "To myself, most of all. I don't know what I will do, if pushed."

"To me? To Agata? Because now you can't switch off your feelings when you choose?"

"That's exactly why."

"That's how I want you to be." 

Before Hannibal had time to answer, the doorbell rang for the second time that day. 

"Are you expecting someone?" Will said. 

Hannibal rose, still unwilling to meet Will's eyes. "I believe I'm accompanying Jan to the headland, where we will sketch." 

"Don't."

Hannibal ignored him and took up his things. Jan was waiting at the door, and when he saw Will he gave a sly grin. 

"When will you be back?" Will asked, not caring that he sounded desperate. 

"I don't know. Don't wait up," Hannibal said, and Will could feel his frustration and confusion. It radiated off him like heat. Frustration with Will, with his own newly untamed needs, and with this appallingly rude child. Transparent glee spread over Jan's face and Will was gripped with an urge to hit him very hard. 

"Fuck," he muttered instead, as he closed the door hard.

Will listened to their voices as they receded. They were taking the coast path; he could follow them. Or he could do as Hannibal had suggested and simply leave. The keys glinted on the table. Marigold watched him as he paced, until he sighed and went into the kitchen to give her some lunch. 

He heard the front door open and close as he bent down to put Marigold's food down. "Hello?" 

"Jonathan, it's me," said Agata, appearing at the kitchen door. "I hope you don't mind?" She lifted up a bottle of wine. "I thought we could share this while the cats are away."

"Does that make us mice?" 

She smiled, her brown eyes warm and amused. "Jan is free to do what he likes. So am I." She held his gaze, her meaning obvious. 

"What did Sven tell you?" He took the bottle from her and poured two large glasses and handed one to Agata. They drank.

"Nothing, only that you might like some company." She leaned against the counter. "Was he right? I can go." 

At least she was safe here. He swallowed a mouthful of wine and met her gaze. "No, please stay." 

"Good, because I very much want to." She put down her glass and walked over to him. She put a hand on his cheek, the side with the scar. "How did you do this?" She asked. 

"Sailing accident."

"Does it hurt to kiss?" She was very close. He could smell her perfume, something delicate and floral. Molly had been the last person he'd kissed. It seemed another life.

"I don't know," he said. 

She looked surprised for a moment, and then she leaned in and pressed her lips to his. Her mouth was soft and welcoming. After a second of shock, Will reached out to her, abruptly desperate for more, for whatever she had that would let him forget both Molly and Hannibal. 

"We can take it slowly," she said when they broke apart.

"No, please. I just… Want not to think." 

She stroked his face. "That sounds good. Take me to your bedroom."

They walked there side by side, with an odd formality. He was very aware of her smallness and lack of height, her slightness. It felt odd, like a broken tooth where one was used a whole one. He was used to having Hannibal at his shoulder.

They undressed separately. Will lay down on his bed that he'd used for nothing but sleep. He hadn't even masturbated. It had been the very last thing on his mind. It felt like the last thing on his mind now too. He swallowed down guilt and fear and made himself hold out a hand to her. Agata lay down next to him. She had a scar on one thigh, a pink scrawl on her olive skin. 

Will touched the skin around it. "What's this?" 

"Shouldn't I be asking about yours?" 

"Please don't," he said ruefully, and she smiled, a little unsure now. 

He kissed her so he didn't have to meet her gaze, and he hated how familiar that felt. Her hair was silky soft, and her body felt good against his, warm and honest. He liked the slickness and boldness of her tongue, he liked her hands on him, but each touch felt separate, unconnected to his mind, and he was aware of the silence in the house. He let her do as she chose, and when she rolled a condom onto him and seated herself on him he closed his eyes. 

Agata moved steadily on him. This wasn't what he wanted. What he wanted would be out in the woods by now. Under the dark old fir. His mouth went dry and at last he felt himself respond, but it was to the memory of Hannibal's breath against his skin and the way his voice was cut with raw need. The way he looked at Will as if he were all he had ever wanted. 

She moaned softly above him, getting close. He grasped her hips, tight, wanting her to know he was with her, at least physically. 

In the Cappella Palatina, Hannibal enfolded him, naked and hard, arms wrapped tight around him. 

Do you ache for him?

Yes. Yes. There was nowhere to go, nowhere else Will wanted to be. The skull mosaic dissolved beneath their bare feet, and he and Hannibal fell into the void. 

*

They lay together afterwards. Will couldn't bring himself to speak. Mostly, he wanted to apologise. 

"You two seem so close. I honestly thought you were together," Agata said, after a while. "Sorry. I don't mean to pry."

"It's all right. It's complicated," Will said. Behind his closed eyes he saw a dome made from the night sky, wheeling with Atlantic stars. His limbs still rang softly from his orgasm. 

Agata was quiet for a moment. "When he came into my gallery he hinted that you'd be alone, that I should come over today," she said. "Venal beast that I am, of course I took him up on it."

Will opened his eyes. "He told you that?" 

"I'm sure he and Jan are off doing something similar."

Will's stomach twisted. He sat up and swung his legs off the bed, knotting his fingers in the sheets so hard that his knuckled bleached white. Cold sweat broke over his forehead. Will could've stopped Hannibal leaving with him. Why hadn't he? Because part of him wanted to see Jan dead, and wanted Hannibal to kill him.

"Jonathan?"

"Are you jealous?" he asked, forcing his voice to stay steady.

"No. I like my own freedom too much. No one to apologise to for my whims."

It could so easily describe Hannibal. "So what do you get out of being with him?"

"His work. He's got little else to bargain with. I've amassed quite a collection, and one day they'll be worth something." She sighed. "That doesn't paint me in the best light, does it? Look," she said, showing him a tiny gold ring on her index finger. "He gave me this, said it belonged to his mother before she died. He told me I'm the only person he's met since she died that makes him feel like family. We all need someone like that, don't we?"

"Yeah. Seems like we do."

"He'll be safe with Sven, won't he?"

He didn't miss the hint of anxiety in her voice. "Yeah. He'll be fine," he managed. "I, ah, I have to go. I'm sorry."

She sat up, frowning. "Are you okay?" 

"Yeah." He groped for words, any words. "There's something I need to do. I-I need to go out."

Agata got up and slipped back into her clothes. He felt her curiosity and her worry. "I'm driving into town, do you need me to drop you somewhere?"

Good, she'd be out of the way for a while at least. He suspected Hannibal would have taken Jan back to her house.

"No, you go ahead. I'll be fine." He itched for her to go, already planning ahead.

She didn't kiss him goodbye, instead she squeezed his shoulder, distancing herself. "Call me if you need to talk," she said as she left, and seemed to mean it.

*

There were no weapons in the house apart from kitchen knives. He stared at them, wrapped one in a tea towel and stuffed it into backpack, then set off. It took him half an hour to round the headland, going as fast as he could. He spent the time thinking of what he'd find once he arrived. All scenarios involved chaotic blood and pain, either his or Hannibal's, but most likely Jan's. 

Will had dreamed of a life where he kept Hannibal in check, somehow. But it had been a mere month and here they were again. Chiyoh's cold kiss came back to him, her wind chilled mouth on his, like being kissed by death. She believed he could have influence over Hannibal, something other than violence.

He reached the sand and hurried along the beach to Agata's house. It stood alone, a low green-painted house surrounded by a scrubby garden planted with wallflowers. There was no sign of anyone at home. He went around the side along a paved path, past round terracotta pots of basil and cilantro. The back door stood open. He went inside.

"Hannibal?" 

His voice was flat in the silence. He walked through the kitchen into a small living space. There was a wood stove, a dining table, a small tv in one corner, and a long low sofa. There was a doorway to the left. It led to a short corridor with what must be bedrooms off it. He pushed the first one open. 

Jan lay on the bed, unconscious. His wrists were tied and so were his ankles. Hannibal sat in an armchair near the window, legs crossed, the picture of deep thought. 

"Hello," he said, seeing Will. He sounded as mild as a lamb. "I thought you might come."

"Let him go. What's the point?"

"There never was a point, as you put it. We make our own order from chaos."

"No, you just make more chaos. There's no order here. What did you give him?" He went over to the bed. Jan's blond hair fell over his eyes. He looked very young.

"A strong sedative. He won't wake up for a while."

"What did you do to him?"

"Nothing at all."

Will checked Jan over; he had no wounds. Will closed his eyes, slipping into an empathic headspace as easily as breathing. The present dimmed, and he saw Hannibal and Jan walking on the beach. He saw Jan inviting him back for a cocktail, sure of himself. 

Hannibal accepting, following Jan into the kitchen, cutting off those talented hands, plucking out the pale blue eyes, ridding him of the gifts he didn't deserve. 

Satisfaction pooled in Will's gut. Perhaps the sedative had been intended for Agata, to knock her into unconsciousness when she returned, so she could wake up to horror. Her punishment for causing Hannibal's jealousy. Yes.

But he'd decided against it. Hannibal, newly unsure of himself, metamorphically altered by the pressure of time and love, deciding to slip the ground up sedative into Jan's wine, to give himself time to think.

"You aren't going to kill him," Will said. "You decided against it. Why?"

Hannibal rose, gaze flat and bleak, and stepped towards them. "Why don't you tell me?"

Will stood his ground. "You considered my reaction. You chose differently, based on that. That's how change works." Hannibal's lips parted. There was sweat on his brow, at his hairline, tiny beads of it, exhaustion lines around his eyes. Will very badly wanted to take him home. "You don't want to hurt me, not anymore."

"How can you know?"

Will twisted his lips into a smile. "Because I don't want to hurt you, and we're just alike. I saved you from the Dragon. I don't want to let all that effort go to waste." 

"It was a lot of effort," Hannibal said dully.

"You can't run away from your own reflection, Hannibal. You can't run from me, and I'm not leaving you, tempting as it might be to be rid of this bullshit. However many boats you dangle in front of me."

Hannibal looked grey under his tan. "Why?"

"Because I love you." The words fit shockingly well in his mouth. "What you do about that is up to you. You can kill me, kill him, but time won't spool backwards. You won't be the man you were before you met me."

"If I had killed him what would you have done?"

"Tolerated it. Covered up for you. Got us away somewhere safe." He leaned back against the door and sighed. 

Hannibal seemed frozen, until he looked over his shoulder at Jan. "We'll untie him," he said roughly. "I'll wake him with cold water and coffee."

"How are you going to explain his abrupt unconsciousness to him?"

"I'll tell him he had a seizure, that he passed out." 

"Kind of a lame excuse."

"It will have to do." 

Hannibal's eyes were a little damp, his mouth soft, and a palpable air of rawness and vulnerability to him. Will walked closer and put a hand on his waist. He'd never touched Hannibal in such an intimate place. Hannibal drew a breath but didn't speak. His skin was hot through his shirt. 

"Draw me again," Will said. "Just not as an allegory this time."

"I will draw you verité. You are my reality." 

Will swallowed, aware of how close they were to each other, how little it would take for them to be pressed together. "Then you should draw me in your bed."

If Hannibal had been about to reply, he was interrupted by a groan from Jan. Will took his hand away reluctantly. "I'll make coffee," he said. 

Hannibal nodded and turned away. From the kitchen he heard Jan mumble something and groan again, and then the smooth rumble of Hannibal's voice. It was soothing and rational, the voice of a man either with all the answers, or at least the dogged willingness to find them. Will had liked that voice a lot, in the beginning. 

He still did. The intentions and curiosity behind it were true and real, if not comprehensible to most people. He realised the water was boiling, and turned it off, then began a search for the coffee. He found a small French press and spooned grounds into it, found mugs and sugar and milk. As he was waiting for the coffee to brew, a square of white linen caught his eye. Jan's napkin portrait was tossed into a wooden fruit bowl along with a set of keys, a pile of mail and a flashlight. Will took it out, folded it up, and put it in his pocket. 

He carried the coffee through on a chipped wooden tray he found hanging on the wall. Jan was sitting up on the bed groggily, and when he saw Will he scowled. "What's he doing here?"

Hannibal glanced at Will with an amused half smile. "Jonathan came over to help me. He was good enough to stay."

"Nice to see you too," Will muttered, and handed Jan a mug. 

"We'll wait with you until Agata returns, won't we, Jonathan?" 

Agata. The idea filled him with dread. "Sure."

Hannibal took out his phone and called her number, giving her a brief explanation. Soon Jan was alert enough to walk through into the living area. Will heard a car pull up outside and a few moments later Agata walked in. 

"Goodness," she said, warily, taking in Will, as well as the others. Will stared down at his coffee mug. The urge to apologise was powerful. "Am I late for the party?"

"Not at all," Hannibal said. "We're sorry to intrude. Poor Jan here had a little contretemps with consciousness." He explained it all in smooth tones, and even to Will it sounded reasonable. 

"And you came to help?" Agata said doubtfully, to Will. 

"It was the neighbourly thing to do."

"Yes, the coffee-making was vital," Jan said, sarcastically. 

She sighed, and Will could see the moment when doubt tipped over into belief. She walked over to Jan and put a hand on his forehead. "You do feel a little warm."

"He may be a bit feverish," Hannibal said. "He may also feel a little haziness." He rose. "Now, we should really leave you alone. Jonathan?" 

On their way out, Agata touched his arm, taking him to one side. "This is very strange," she said. 

"Yeah. Sorry." Hannibal had stepped outside and was waiting politely out of earshot on the garden path. Will watched him bend to sniff at a stalk of lavender. "Look, I'm sorry about before, too. This afternoon."

She nodded, shooting a glance at Hannibal. "Seems a mistake, in hindsight. You two are far too complicated."

Shame pricked at him. "You feel used."

She raised her shoulders in a shrug. "We used each other. So we're even, aren't we?"


	5. Chapter 5

He and Hannibal walked back along the coast path. The afternoon heat had become thick and sticky, and even the cicadas had stopped chirring. The scrubby woodland was silent apart from the crack and crackle of their feet on dried leaves and twigs. The scent of sea water and hot vegetation was heavy all around them. 

They came to the dark old fir, its arms outheld as if in dramatic warning, and Will stopped. 

"I slept with Agata. You know that."

"Yes. I expected you to," Hannibal said. "I told her you'd be alone. She's a woman who can take a hint."

Anger rose in Will's throat, partly at his own predictability. "So, why? You pushed us together as a distraction for me?"

"Yes," said Hannibal. "It was convenient. And I assumed..." He paused, as if searching for words, perhaps lost for once in his own reasoning. "I assumed you'd enjoy it."

A gulf opened up at Will's feet. He could either jump across or fall in. "When I was fucking her, I thought about you."

Hannibal's eyes grew dark and filled with longing. He took his hand and, as Will watched, he raised it to his mouth and laid his lips on it. The touch was soft, his mouth gentle, and Will couldn't help but imagine other kisses. He shivered, curling his fingers tight into Hannibal's grip. He tugged him closer, until they were almost mouth to mouth. 

"You can't manipulate reality to suit your own needs, Hannibal."

"Reality can be subjective. You know this more fully than most people, Will." 

"No, it's not." He took a deep breath. It never had been for him, not really, as much as Hannibal had wanted to twist him into something else. "Reality is you keeping your head down, not killing anyone, keeping us safe. I want to live, and I want you."

Hannibal looked away. He still held Will's hand, and Will could feel how warm and damp his skin was, the struggle he was undergoing. "Is that all it takes?" Hannibal said. "Do nothing. Be safe."

"It's not nothing. It's living."

"And if I can't?" It was an admission of agreement, and they both knew it. Hannibal clung onto his hand hard. 

"I don't know. We'll cross that bridge when we come to it."

"Bridges harbour trolls," said Hannibal. His smile seemed to cost him a lot. "But I'll cross them all if it means you will stay with me."

In the breathing silence of the trees, the air seemed to grow thinner and they swayed closer. 

"Do you still want to hurt them?" Will said, softly. He slid a hand along Hannibal's shoulder, up the back of his head, guiding him closer. 

"I will never stop wanting to. I'll never stop wanting you to join me." 

Hannibal's honesty seemed to spread like fire down his spine. "Neither will I." 

"Will," Hannibal groaned. 

Will leaned forward and brought their mouths together. He had been right; Hannibal's mouth was soft. Hannibal kissed him again, just slight touches, wondering and careful, and it was that more than anything else that made Will start to get hard. Hannibal raised his hands to Will's face, cupping it, warm and damp. They parted, breath mingling.

"I would like to capture you like this forever," Hannibal said. 

"You can. Let's go home."

The last half a mile passed in a blur of heat and sun and sand. The house was cool and dark, and Will led them to Hannibal's bedroom. 

"Here," he said, hardly able to catch his breath. "Draw me in your bed."

Hannibal moved close, touched him on the shoulder, then ran his fingers across Will's chest to the buttons on his shirt. "May I?" he said, his voice thick.

Will could only nod. Hannibal began to undo them. Will looked down at his quick neat actions and became almost dizzy with need, until his shirt fell open and Hannibal eased it down off his shoulders. Will shrugged it off, and Hannibal stepped back to look at him.

"Your skin is a map of my love," Hannibal said, gaze tracking from scar to scar. 

"Some map, and a brutal kind of love." He took Hannibal's hand and placed it on his stomach. 

"A map to navigate by," Hannibal murmured. "Even in the dark." He slid his fingers lower till they bumped over the ridge of smooth scar tissue, and further down. 

Will gasped, despite himself. His erection was bulging against his pants. Hannibal's fingers rested on his belt buckle. He looked up at Will questioningly, and Will nodded. 

Hannibal dropped smoothly to his knees and helped him off with his shoes, then drew everything else down his legs and off. The departure of the final scrap of fabric from his skin forced a small groan from Will's chest. Still on his knees, Hannibal wrapped his hands around Will's bare ankles, then slid them up his calves, behind his knees, over the meat of his thighs. 

"I've never practised it, but I would sculpt you if I could," Hannibal said. He gazed up at Will, head tipped back.

"You could try."

"I would like to, one day."

Will watched his mouth move, and his pulse fragmented. His cock stood up high now, and Hannibal's breath was a damp heat on its length. A lazy heat prickled over Will's skin, beginning at his neck and spreading downwards. 

"I should fetch my things, or I won't draw you at all," Hannibal said, his voice low. 

"Go," Will said. 

After he left, Will sat down on the bed, his heart racing. He pulled himself backwards onto the pillows, then lay back and turned his face into them. They smelled a little of Hannibal's hair. He stretched out his arms, tucking one behind his head, resting the other on his stomach. He raised one knee, listening to Hannibal moving around the house. 

Hannibal returned quickly, and stopped just inside the door.

"Like this?" Will said, heart skipping a beat. 

"Yes." He pulled over a chair and sat, close, pad and pencil in hand, and began to draw. He worked quickly, pencil tip flying over the paper with a soft scratching. 

It felt strange for his body to be the centre of Hannibal's attention. "I thought you only wanted me for my mind," Will said softly.

Hannibal looked up at him for a few seconds, lost, then seemed to bring himself back to the present. "Perhaps I did, once. Or thought that I did." 

"Hannibal Lecter admitting to be being blind to his own motivations?" 

"I was never blind, but curiosity was king. But later, much later, the night we cooked lomo saltado, it struck me that had I never seen anyone as beautiful as you. I began to hunger on that night. I have wanted you ever since."

The timbre of Hannibal's voice was so low that it seemed to vibrate through Will's bones. He swallowed, imagining Hannibal's empty longing, the bounded days waiting for Will to come to him in prison. His erection lay against his thigh, heavy and hot. He wanted to squirm under Hannibal's steady gaze. His hand crept down to his cock as if by its own will. He wrapped his fingers around himself.

"If you want to draw me like this, you'd better hurry. I won't last long."

Hannibal turned a page and began another sketch, this time fast and fluid. He wore a pink flush high on his cheeks, an evidence of his arousal that made Will dizzy. Will began to stroke himself faster, careless of holding his pose, until finally Hannibal laid down his pad and pencil.

Will reached a hand out to him. "Hannibal. Please."

Hannibal was with him in two steps, taking off his shoes, pulling off his shirt rather than unbuttoning it. He knelt heavily over Will, knees on either side of Will's hips, hands braced by his shoulders. The touch of his hard thighs, even through the soft linen of his pants, was electrifying. Will took Hannibal's hand and replaced his own with it, and they stared at each other in a thick breathing silence.

He saw himself as if through Hannibal's eyes; frail human, repository of Hannibal's secrets, the rough clay jar that stored Hannibal's love. 

Will wound his arms around Hannibal's neck, pulling him closer, pulling him into a kiss that slid from soft to hard and deep in seconds. Hannibal groaned into his mouth and lowered his full weight onto Will, arm sliding under his back to pull him in tight. He was hard too, and all of Will's thoughts fizzled out to blank white. 

"Hannibal. Can I touch you?" 

In reply, Hannibal yanked open his button and zipper. Will's fingertips grazed over smooth cotton shorts, exploring the stretch of it over hard flesh, then Hannibal pushed it all down and off. Skin to skin at last, they wound close until to Will it seemed like they were trying to climb inside each other. With Hannibal's mouth slick and wet on his, he saw them both meld and blend into one powerful head-tossing beast, flanks sleek with sweat and muscle. He slid his hand down over Hannibal's back, fingers shrinking from the rim of branded tissue. 

"Does it still hurt you?" he said. 

"Sometimes," said Hannibal. "Don't stop."

Will slid his hand down over Hannibal's hip, fingers digging tight into the swelling curve of his ass. Oh, the things he could have from Hannibal, the things they could do. 

"Make me yours," he said. "I want you. I want everything from you." 

Hannibal gazed down at him, wide eyed. "You already have it."

He tightened his grip on Will's cock, pulling at it so perfectly that it might have been his own. Will wanted to see that, too. The idea struck a spark inside him and he couldn't hold back a moan. 

"Will." Hannibal bent closer, breath trembling in the space between them.

They stroked each other quickly and awkwardly, finesse out the window. Something for another time, not now. Will looked down, watching the first spurts come from the head of Hannibal's cock, and then he was coming too, gasping Hannibal's name as his body shook with white heat. 

They lay curled together afterwards, silent. Hannibal with mussed hair and reddened lips looked like a younger version of himself. Half a smile curled over Hannibal's mouth. Will reached out to stroke his cheek. 

"No need to look so pleased with yourself," he said softly, tracing the bone up to the dip of his temple, back down again, bumping over the small scar he'd acquired at Muskrat Farm. Hannibal's smile grew a little more, and Will liked it. 

"There's every reason," Hannibal said. 

The doorbell chimed then, loud in the silence, and for a long second they looked at each other. Will rose and dragged on his pants and shirt. He walked barefoot to the door and looked through the spyhole. It was Nikos. Will opened the door. 

"I'm sorry," Nikos said, in a low voice, pitched for Will alone. His glance darted over Will's shoulder, warily, looking. 

That gave it away. Will knew what Nikos had done without even having to ask. A warm squirt of adrenaline flooded his stomach and suddenly he felt nauseated. "The police know we're here."

"It was my daughter. She told me she saw him here. Hannibal Lecter. She went to them yesterday. They're on their way."

The young woman who'd come to clean the place, the one that Hannibal had looked at so coldly. That had been weeks ago; it must've taken her a while to build up her courage. Will leaned heavily against the door, thinking back. The young man with the hands that looked too soft and clean. How could he have been so blind? "That man wasn't your nephew, was he?" 

"No," said Nikos. He looked away. "He was an agent from the mainland."

They must have been watching the house, waiting, making certain Hannibal was there. "Why are you telling me?" 

Nikos blew out a deep breath. "You seem a good man. My daughter, she showed me the newspaper reports. If… if it's true, you can run now. Save yourself."

"Thanks," Will said. "I-- Thanks." He closed the door in Nikos's face. "Hannibal," he said, starting to run. "We need to leave. Now."

Hannibal had heard everything, apparently. He was already dressed and he had a bag open on the bed. Next to it was a small pile of documents, cash and credit cards. He glanced up at Will as he packed them inside. "Get the keys to your boat. That's all we need."

"They'll be watching the roads. How are we gonna reach the marina?" 

"They don't know where we're going. We can follow the coast to the town," Hannibal said with a tight smile. "It's a long walk but we don't have a choice. Are you fit to go?"

"Are you?" 

"We'll have to be." Hannibal put his sketch pad on top of everything else and zipped up the bag. 

"If they know you're here, they might know about the boat," Will said. 

"We'll take the chance."

There was no other option. They had to give it a shot. 

Will threw a water bottle and the keys into his own bag, deliberating over bread and cheese for a second before shoving it in too, they didn't know where or when they'd have access to food. Marigold wound round his legs, looking up at him with round orange eyes, and her small pink mouth opened in a yowl.

"Bring her," Hannibal said imperiously, at his shoulder. 

"Jesus. Really?" Will said to her, then, not stopping to think, scooped her up and shoved her into her cat carrier. "Fine. Fuck."

They left the house, running down through the olive grove to the beach. No sirens yet. They jogged along it, keeping to the rough scrub at the edge, until they reached a headland. There was another beach and more scrub, and another, and another. 

It was heavy going on the thick sand, and they were walking at speed, half jogging. Sweat dripped down Will's face and neck, soaking his shirt, and he felt his face and arms begin to burn. Hannibal wasn't any better off; his breathing was worryingly rough, but they couldn't risk stopping for long. He caught at Hannibal's arm. 

They trudged on for a long time, growing gradually slower. Will calculated that they'd walked around five miles, and the scenery began to change. They were clearly nearing the town. The hillsides were becoming more thickly dotted with houses, and the next beach they came to was scattered with sunloungers and holiday makers. Will and Hannibal approached slowly. No obvious police presence, but that didn't mean they weren't here, watching. 

Hannibal reached out and took Will's hand in his, and they slowed their pace even more. Will took the hint; two middle aged tourists strolling on the beach. Hannibal was still breathing hard, far too hard to be good news.

Behind them, he heard a yell. Hannibal squeezed his hand, and Will looked around as casually as he could, ice trickling down his spine. It was a youth with a frisbee.

"No sign of them," said Hannibal. 

"No." Not yet, but he was pretty sure there soon would be once they'd checked all possible escape routes. 

He sped them up, trying to ignore Hannibal's laboured breaths as they cleared the beach, and soon they hit a narrow road that looked little used. Fir and olive lined it, along with rusted chain link fencing. They followed it and found it led to a small enclave of houses, some still half built. There was no one around, but there was a car, a dusty old Fiat. Will strode towards it. He tried the handle and miraculously it popped open. He sagged with relief and dumped Marigold on the passenger seat.

"Get in," he said, and went round to the driver's seat. "Lie on the back seat." They would be looking for two men, not one. Definitely not one man and a broken cat.

"Can you hotwire a car?" Hannibal said. He had a hand flat to his stomach and he looked grey.

"What, you think I wasted my youth? Of course I can."

"I'm impressed," Hannibal said, as he eased himself down onto the seat. There was barely enough room for him to stretch his legs, but it wouldn't be for long. 

"Well, don't be. We're not there yet. Are you okay?"

"Never better," Hannibal said, and closed his eyes. Worryingly, he sounded like he meant it.

Will guided the car out and set off. There was only one road into the town, and the marina was on it, Hannibal said. It wouldn't be hard to spot. He flipped open the glove compartment and found a dusty blue baseball cap. He jammed it on his head. As disguises went it was a poor job, but he might just pass for a local farmer, a man like Nikos.

"They will have contacted Jack," Hannibal said from the back seat. "I feel he might want to come in person as a farewell to old friends. It wouldn't be the first time he's shot you."

If they'd linked the killing in Milan back to Will and Hannibal, they might well have orders to shoot to kill. Jack might deem it a righteous end, and he might well be waiting for them.

"I don't want to die," said Will. "I also don't want you to die."

"Then I will try my best not to." 

There seemed little else to say after that. 

The traffic grew heavier the closer they got to the town, and scrubby hillside gave way to urban sprawl. Parking lots, out of town supermarkets, a school, car showrooms. It was late afternoon and already the sun was plummeting to the horizon, growing gold and heavy over the sea, gilding the concrete. 

Finally, new buildings gave way to old, and the marina came in sight. It ran along the sea road, a collection of expensive yachts bobbing on clear water, the street opposite lined by restaurants and boutiques. Will's stomach clenched. Whatever hope he'd had that this would be easy died when he saw the four patrol cars parked at the entrance. There were six uniformed officers, all armed, two in plain clothes, one of whom he recognised as Nikos's nephew, and Jack. He stood solidly, feet planted, a wall. 

Just beyond the entrance, across two meters of boardwalk, was the water.

"They're here," he said. He pulled the car off the road some distance away and turned off the engine, rubbing his eyes hard until he saw stars. He heard Hannibal shifting to sit up. Salt sweat was crusted on his brow. "Shit."

"Of course they would be covering all ways off the island. Jack probably calculated this would be our most likely route."

"Yeah," Will said. 

"I promised Alana that I would save you, once."

Will twisted in his seat to look at him. "You did?"

"At Muskrat Farm. She gave me a knife and let me cut off my bonds in exchange for your life."

Will swallowed tightly, picturing the scene. The many scenes. He'd pieced it together himself, later, from Jack's report, but that detail hadn't been in there. "You took me home and put me to bed."

"I could have run, before I found you. I thought about it, briefly. For a moment I believed I had total freedom and choice. I was very tired. But I chose to save you. So it was already a given that I couldn't let you die. Alana didn't need to bargain with me for your life; I would have done it unasked." 

"How did it make you feel?" Will said softly. The longer they sat here, the sooner they'd be spotted. But he had to know.

"Relieved." Hannibal's throat worked. He glanced up at Will. "Joyful."

"That you'd saved me?" 

"That you lived. And then… I thought it possible you would choose a life with me."

"I couldn't have, not then. But I can now."

They looked at each other. Hannibal ran a hand through his hair, neatening it, and drank a little water. "Then we need to cause a distraction," he said, smiling. He popped open the car door and got out. 

"Hannibal!" 

Hannibal ignored him, jogging through traffic to the other side of the road and heading quickly towards Jack. "No, no, no," Will said, like a desperate prayer. "Not like that!" He grabbed Marigold and their bags and abandoned the car. He pulled the hat down low over his face and threaded his way as fast as he could through the early evening tourist crowd that filled the sidewalk.

Cold terror walked down his spine. He couldn't lose Hannibal now, not like this. He wanted so much more. He sped up to a jog, eyes glued to Hannibal ahead of him.

His heart seemed to stop when Hannibal began to run, heading straight towards Jack with a powerful full-tilt sprint. Two white haired men, tanned to the colour of mahogany desks, turned their heads in unison as Hannibal sped past, like spectators at a race track. A child, clinging onto its mother's hand, screamed. 

One of the officers barked a command. Jack opened his mouth wide, shouting something, and raised his gun. 

But the crowd was too numerous to risk shooting. Hannibal had seen that. He ran through the cordon of police, barrelling them aside as they tried to tackle him, crossed the boardwalk at speed and took a running dive into the sea. He disappeared with a splash and did not resurface.

"Spread out," he heard Jack call, after what seemed like minutes but must have been only seconds. "He's in here somewhere."

Now, for a moment, in the confusion, the entrance was clear as the officers ran across to search the water. Just as Hannibal had intended. A small part of Will, the part that wasn't simultaneously furious and distraught, admired the sheer brashness of it. 

There were two gunshots then, and Will felt them both, hot adrenal punches behind his ribs that made him want to puke. He almost did, nausea rising as the world span around him, but instead he forced himself to walk in, unnoticed and unremarked. He kept his head down, keeping to the lengthening shadows, and hid himself quickly out of sight behind the nearest yacht. He fumbled for the boat keys, hands shaking. They were getting a net now, to drag and fish for him. Sirens wailed in the distance. There was nothing for it but to go, so he made his way as fast as he could, ducking from boat to boat. 

The boat Hannibal had bought for him was called Prudence, and it was berthed at the end of a small jetty, far from the action. It was a pretty thing, a sleek reconditioned sailing boat made of wood, painted blue and white. It looked old fashioned and homely next to the fibreglass beasts birthed next to it. Hannibal had chosen it for him, clearly thinking that he'd like it. Will's heart seemed to take on the density of a black hole. 

He made his way aboard, keeping low. They obviously didn't know yet that Hannibal owned this boat, but now they would be checking, and they would soon come looking. Fortunately, the sailing season was at its height, and Will reckoned there were upwards of 100 vessels in the marina, and even more on the channel of water beyond. Local fisherman, tourist dinghies, small sailing boats, ferries. The coastguard would be out too, but with luck the chaos might hide his passage. 

The cabin held the last rays of twilight. When he'd shot Budge, the ringing had lasted in his ears for days. That's what it felt like now, a numb high pitched ringing in his mind, blotting out everything else. But he had to move, to do something. Hannibal might be out there somewhere, alive. 

With shaking hands, he set Marigold down, found a bowl in a cupboard and filled it with water, then opened the door to her carrier and put it inside. "Sorry," he said, to her yells of outrage. He sympathised. "You're staying in there at least for tonight."

He took a proper look around, and something struck him. Wet footprints on the varnished wooden floor. He hadn't seen them in the dark. Will almost ran the three steps to the stateroom, hope unfurling like a flag. 

He pushed the door open to find Hannibal crouched on the floor, still dripping wet. He had a towel around his shoulders and he was panting and clutching his stomach.

"Hello, Will," he said, as calmly as if they were meeting at a garden party. 

"Did you even stop to think before you did that?" 

"No," Hannibal said, and smiled. "What's life without a little risk?"

Will stared at him for a few moments longer and then let out the breath that had been held in check for what seemed like the past hour. He helped Hannibal up onto the bed and got him horizontal. He pulled off his wet things carefully, and found dry clothes in a small oak locker. Hannibal's size. There were clothes for him too. 

"Would you like to stop and chat to Jack, or shall we be on our way?" 

"Are you letting me decide now, after that performance?"

"I created the opportunity for choice where there was none. This is our best chance to get off the island." 

"We might not make it," Will said. "They're still dragging the water." 

"Did they see you?"

"No. I'm pretty sure of it."

"Then we have half a chance," Hannibal said.

"I want to run," Will said. He pressed his lips to Hannibal's damp neck, picking up the delicate taste of saltwater, and felt Hannibal shiver. "With you. It's what I've wanted for years."

*

Will crawled out on hands and knees to unhitch the painter. The engine noise was unavoidable, but he reckoned they were just far enough away for it to be drowned out by the police launch that was still combing the water. He fired it up, wincing at the initial roar, and then the low steady throb. Hannibal came up behind him, close, and put a hand on his waist. Will's whole body seemed to respond, hyper aware of it despite the danger. No, because of it.

"What can I do?" 

"At this point? Nothing," Will said, scanning the water ahead as he carefully, slowly, reversed out of the mooring. "Don't try anything stupid, and definitely don't try anything clever."

Hannibal bent to kiss Will's bare neck where his shirt exposed it. His mouth was damp and very warm, and the kiss was full of silent promise.

"Hannibal," Will said, hoarsely. "You need to get below deck."

Hannibal slid his arm around Will's waist, hand spanning out over his lower stomach, holding him more tightly for a second. The heat of his sigh blew over Will's neck. "They won't see me. They won't see us. Look ahead, we're sailing into the void." He kissed Will again, pressing so close. "Just you and I."

Will had always fed on Hannibal's unshakeable confidence, even from the very first, the same confidence that had taken Hannibal from Paris to Baltimore to here. He was scared of nothing. Will smiled and let out the part of himself that he kept caged, the part that would saunter bloodily through life at Hannibal's side if it could. 

"Fine," he said, and gunned the engine. 

Ahead, beyond the remaining glow of lights cast from the town, night fell abruptly, like a heavy velvet cloth. It was scattered with points of light, but these became far fewer the further they pushed out into the open sea. No boat followed them, no bullet smashed between their shoulder blades. 

Will headed south into open water, away from the scattering of islands, going fast and far. Hannibal left him to go sleep, and Will drove on through the night, driven by adrenaline and coffee. 

Hannibal emerged a couple of hours after dawn. They were in the middle of nowhere, far out in open water. "I've made us a little breakfast," he said. 

He anchored the boat and followed Hannibal down the six steps to the galley. It had a cosy air, and a simple and basic charm. The white painted wooden walls glowed in the soft light. Will sat down at the small table, which Hannibal had laid with white china and crystal and silverware. Completely impractical for a boat, but Will touched them, happy at their fragility, glad for their presence. 

From her cat carrier, Marigold yowled. Hannibal had given her food and water. 

"We should let her out," Will said. 

"Really? I was afraid she might jump overboard," Hannibal said. 

"I'm no expert but cats don't usually try to imitate fish." 

Hannibal smiled. "No. They're happy as they are. As we all should be. Here." He opened Marigold's carrier, and she stepped cautiously out onto the boat, her head held high to sniff. She explored for a while, and then curled up in a patch of sun and slept.

"Something smells good," Will said.

Hannibal smiled at him over his shoulder as he put food onto plates. "Omelet with bacon. I thought something simple would suffice for our first day at sea." 

"It's not technically our first day." 

"Our first where I'm capable of cooking, then."

After, Hannibal followed him into the stateroom. It wasn't very big, but the bed was full sized and to Will it looked like heaven. They lay close, arms and legs touching. Small waves rocked the boat, and Will closed his eyes. He was sinking fast. 

"Do you feel safe, on our small boat on the ocean?" Hannibal said. 

Will was too tired to answer, or even to open his eyes again. Instead, he put out a hand and touched Hannibal's body, as if he were holding onto a talisman.


	6. Chapter 6

Will woke slowly. Hannibal had laid his head on Will's shoulder at some point and was asleep, curled close to him. The sleeping weight of his head and body felt like a gift. Will raised a hand and touched his cheek, not wanting to wake him, and slid his arm carefully around Hannibal's shoulders. They'd slept all morning.

Hannibal shifted against him, moving closer. "Will," he said, in a rusty voice.

Will kissed his hair. "You still smell of seawater."

Hannibal stretched against him, so that Will felt every hard and solid muscle of him, and began to pull away. "Then I should shower."

Will reached out to pull him back, and Hannibal came easily, in a way that made Will's breath come short. "That wasn't a complaint. Where shall we go?" Will said.

"It doesn't matter."

"If it doesn't matter, we could go anywhere, or nowhere. It should be a choice we make together."

"Why should it?" Hannibal said. "I am content to let you decide everything. I've demonstrated that I have very poor judgement where my feelings about you are concerned."

Paths unfolded across globe, firefly arcs against the darkness of Will's mind, places they could go. Will had very little time to decide.

"We'll go back home, your home," he said.

Hannibal raised his head. He looked intrigued, and Will smiled at that. "I told you once that I could never predict you," Hannibal said. "It's still the case."

Will's firefly, the doorknocker he'd built to Hannibal's house, it would still be there, and he needed Hannibal to see it. "We'd better get moving then. We can't stay here much longer."

The ocean was empty around them to the horizon. They took turns in the tiny shower room, rinsing off yesterday as best they could. Will washed himself in Hannibal's expensive soap, and found himself with his fist tight around his cock. He looked down, mouth dry. He wanted Hannibal's hand on him. His hand, or his mouth. Fuck. Fuck. It took him less than a minute, imagery flooding him like the sea through a breached wall; bare knees on a mosaic church floor, an act of submission and prayer, Hannibal's need thick around him like a fog, Hannibal's lips parted for him, taking him inside.

After, he finished washing himself and turned the shower onto cold, heart thumping and hands shaking. He dried and dressed quickly. In the galley, Hannibal had made them food.

Hannibal's glance lingered on him. He knew, obviously, probably had smelled it. Will felt a blush spread up his neck, but he didn't look away. The moment spooled out, thick with suggestion.

"You must be hungry," Hannibal said, eventually.

"Yeah."

After they'd eaten, they stepped up to the tiny wheelhouse and Will began to figure out a course to take them north.

"Will you show me how all this works?" Hannibal said, gesturing to the control panel.

"You want to know?"

"Of course. It could be very useful."

Right. Will did a quick inventory. It all seemed in order, and the tech was so up to date that Will guessed it must have been refitted very recently, possibly on Hannibal's orders. "If we're heading north, we need to get to the Turkish Straits. Once we're through the Bosphorus, we can head for a Romanian port. Should take us about four or five days. I can chart that myself, or programme it into the system." His stomach jumped a little at the pleasure of the journey ahead. The risk too. He saw Hannibal watching him, and they exchanged a smile.

"Can you steer by the stars?" Hannibal asked.

"If I have to, sure. Usually it's just a back-up for GPS or whatever electronic system they're using. My dad taught me. Said it might save my life one day."

"Did you sail with him often?"

They'd barely discussed his dad, or his early life. He knew far more about Hannibal's, in fact, and even then not very much. It felt strange that there was so much about each other they didn't know, the grains of experience that make up consciousness.

"Not often. But sometimes we'd get to take out a boat, test the engine, stuff like that. He taught me a lot, that way."

"He must have been a remarkable man."

"What makes you say that?"

"He made you what you are today. The rocky promontory that I have thrown myself against repeatedly. Unchanging."

"That's not true," he said. "I've changed. Dolarhyde changed me, as surely as he wanted to change you."

"Even rocks are eroded away as the sea churns around them, little by little." Hannibal said. "But your foundations remain."

"No. What you tried to do to me was erosion. He split me wide open."

"But you have never been so whole," Hannibal said, wonderingly. "Perhaps he healed, finally, the damage I caused. I would thank him if I could. And your father."

Will turned and pressed his face to Hannibal's neck, breath shaking. Hannibal held him for a long time, warm and solid and seemingly immoveable, until Will raised his head. "I should set our course," he said.

"And what would you like me to do?"

He stood there smiling in the sunlight, breeze ruffling his hair as if they were on a riviera cruise

"Whatever you like," Will said.

Whatever he liked proved to be sleeping. He settled in a wooden deckchair at the stern, in the shade cast by the bulkhead, and he slept, as carefree and trusting as a baby, rocked by the steady movement of the boat. Marigold came trotting over and jumped into his lap, but he only petted her and fell back to sleep. Will found his gaze drawn back to him, to the loose curve of his hands resting Marigold and the long lines of his legs stretched out.

He left the wheel. His feet were silent on the varnished boards, and when he knelt at Hannibal's side he made no sound. This close, he could see the almost invisible brush of Hannibal's eyelashes. Under his lids, his eyes moved as he dreamt. Satisfied, Will watched him for a long time.

Hannibal woke hours later, when the shadows were lengthening. He stood and stretched, as unconsciously elegant as a great beast. Will imagined his feet shaking the forest floor as he stamped down.

"Feel better?" he managed.

"Much," said Hannibal. "Where are we?"

"Five miles off Andros. The going's been pretty tough."

"You must be hungry and tired," Hannibal said. "I'll make you something."

"Take the wheel, if you like. I'll make the food."

Will showed him the throttle and how best to guide the nose of the boat through the swell, and gave him instructions on how to pass oncoming traffic. Standing close, he got a strong scent of Hannibal's sun warmed skin and hair, a soft and very human scent. Will breathed it in.

"Am I competent to be left in charge?" Hannibal said.

"Don't sink the boat and we'll be just fine."

"Yes, Captain."

Later, they dropped anchor for the night and ate, both ravenous again, and afterwards they both sat back, drowsy with food and wine. Hannibal was watching him, dark eyed and very readable. The molecules of air between then seemed to rearrange themselves, becoming tangible and hot.

"Let's go out on deck," Will said.

"We can watch the stars. Perhaps you can teach me to steer by them."

"I'm not up for any more teaching today."

Will found a blanket and cushions in one of the storage boxes and laid them out on deck. Hannibal brought out the wine, and they settled down, heads on cushions. The space between the stars was an unfathomable black.

"When I was a young man I would look up at these same stars and be glad that I needed no one," Hannibal said. "They were reassuring in their vastness. A great glittering memo to remind us we're insignificant."

"The only significance we can have is to each other."

"And even then for only a brief time."

Will turned so he could look at Hannibal. "We should make the most of it, then."

"Will," Hannibal said, the timbre of his voice low and hot. "I can no longer live without you. I no longer wish to."

Time seemed to stop. It took him whole seconds to process that Hannibal was kissing him, soft and wet, tongue sliding in against his own. He thrilled at that, at the invasion, and began to tug at his clothes. Hannibal pulled at them too, pushing and peeling cloth from skin, tugging his clothes down and off. Hannibal pushed him back onto the blanket and stood, shedding his own clothes as Will watched, until he was naked against the sky, outlined by stars.

"Wait," Will said, staring up, "stay like that, just for a second."

"What do you see?" Hannibal said.

Will traced the stars around his outline. "A constellation."

"You'll have to think of a name for me."

"I already have. The Stag."

Hannibal looked quizzical. Will had never told him about the stag or the charcoal black nightmare that had wandered through his diseased imagination. He beckoned Hannibal to him. "Come down from the stars."

Hannibal knelt almost as if his knees had given out. Will eased him down on top of him, careful of his wound, seeking Hannibal's mouth again. His lips were soft and they opened so easily to the press of Will's tongue, allowing him inside. Will ran his hands over the wide span of Hannibal's shoulders, then down to the rough skin of his brand. The scar was three years old, but still a thread of rage snaked down his spine.

"If I could take his brand off you right now, I would."

"You could cut it out. I'd let you." Hannibal's voice was soft and heavy.

"God. Hannibal." Will took his hand away, shaking. The world seemed suddenly devoid of air. He could picture it too easily, and could feel the lure of it. They even had the tools to do it. Hannibal had packed a medical kit. He couldn't say he didn't want to; it would be a lie. "Not now."

"Would you replace it with your own mark?"

"I don't need to." He slid his palms down to Hannibal's ass. They moved easily on his skin, damp with sweat. He gripped hard, fingers dipping into his cleft. "Whatever mark I've left is inside you."

Hannibal gazed down at him, eyes going glassy, mouth slack. Hannibal's cock hardened yet more against him, thick and hot on his belly. "Then leave more of yourself inside me."

Will skated his fingers over Hannibal's entrance, pressing against the heat there, pressing in. "I had no idea that the concept of change would arouse you so much."

"Not the concept, the acts that led to it," Hannibal said, pushing back into Will's touch. "And the agent."

As a case study, it would be a fascinating read. Hannibal's case would fill whole journals, and indeed had. He could see Lounds's title: The Psychopath Who Fell in Love.

Will settled his hands on Hannibal's hips, fingers digging in. When he'd imagined the sex they might have, and he had, increasingly, he'd always imagined Hannibal wanting to be in control, to be the one to do the fucking. It suited his MO, after all.

"Do you have anything?" Will asked.

"Wait here." Hannibal left briefly then came back carrying oil.

He lay down and rolled onto his stomach, and the breath left Will's body in a rush. He took the softest of the cushions and arranged it under Hannibal's stomach so that he'd be protected from the hard boards.

He knelt up behind him, admiring the lines of his back and his legs. He skimmed them with his palms; ass, thighs, calves, right down to his strong ankles and bony feet. He trailed his hands back up, coming to rest on his ass. He parted Hannibal's cheeks a little and, taking the oil, began to prepare him. Hannibal stayed quiet and still, head down, breathing steady.

"Okay?" Will asked, stroking a hand over Hannibal's lower back. His gaze kept coming back to Mason's brand. It'd better be cut out, he thought, distantly. It was ugly, and he'd be seeing it often.

"Yes." Hannibal spoke in low rough tones, as if on the edge of control. Will's balls tightened and he squeezed himself hard for a moment, numbing his arousal a little.

Will bent over him, working his fingers in, taking it slow, memorising every noise and motion and scent. They anchored him helplessly in the here and now, and for once reality felt safe. He brought his head down against Hannibal's and listened to his breathing hitch. Hannibal's body was very tight and very hot, opening to him slowly. How long was it since Hannibal had been touched like this? Had anyone, before? He didn't know, and suddenly found that unbearable.

"I want to know everything about you," he said, close to Hannibal's ear.

Hannibal tightened around his fingers, turning his head to him. "You already know everything that matters."

"Doesn't seem to be enough." He turned Hannibal's chin towards him and found his mouth, so soft and wet. He kissed him slowly, finger fucking him until every space between them seemed slick and wet and open. Hannibal didn't say anything else and didn't try to hurry him, but his breathing came more raggedly and his back grew damp with sweat.

"Are you ready?" Will said, kissing the back of his neck. Hannibal nodded. Will knelt back, stroked lube onto his cock, and pushed into him. He moaned through gritted teeth as he felt Hannibal open up to take him, and when he was fully inside he struggled for control. He pushed a hand under Hannibal's stomach and found his cock. It was wet and leaking.

"Will," Hannibal said softly. His name in Hannibal's mouth was now a dark and luscious sound, as rich as a ripe cherry. "You have me."

"Shhh." Will pressed his face to damp skin and hair. "If you talk I'm coming in seconds." He could feel Hannibal's satisfaction at that, almost vibrating off him, and squeezed his cock warningly.

"I'm not certain I can stop myself."

Will gritted out a smile. Always had to have the last damn word. But he fell silent and, after a little while, Will was in control enough to move. He propped himself up one forearm and stroked Hannibal's cock with his other hand, making short tight thrusts, trying to move his hand in time, failing, and all the while struggling with sensory overload; the smell of sex and seawater, the firm curves of Hannibal's ass pressing back tight against his stomach, the sounds Hannibal was making. He began to fuck him hard, unable to stop. Those sounds. Hannibal's breaths were more like shocked gasps, soft and uncontrolled, and he reached back to slide his hand down the back of Will's thigh, fingers curling into his flesh.

By the end he was holding Hannibal as tightly as Hannibal had held him when they had plunged into the water. He didn't want to be anywhere else, or with anyone else, or be anyone else.

Hannibal's cock hardened in his palm. He seemed impossibly hard for a few long seconds, then he came in Will's hand, a series of liquid hot pulses that coated Will's fingers and palm. He groaned, feeling each one, as if he were coming himself. Then he really was.

Will thrust wildly for a few blind seconds and then stilled, back arched as his orgasm broke over him. Hannibal turned his head, eyes closed and mouth wet and soft, and Will leaned down to find it with his own, shaking now.

After, Will lifted himself off, and they lay side by side. Will was grateful for the cool breeze, and from the corner of his eye he watched Hannibal's breathing finally become slow and steady. Hannibal reached out and touched his fingertips to Will's. Will curled his own around them.

"I never did answer your question," Hannibal said.

"Care to be more specific?"

"On our very first night on the island. I was so very tired, and almost violently grateful to have survived, and for you to have survived."

Will dredged up the conversation from his memory. "I asked if you could quantify how you'd changed. You're right, you didn't answer. I assumed you couldn't."

"You said I quantified change in my patients by their acts of killing. Do you quantify it in me by the opposite?"

"Maybe."

"I've watched you transform from the shadow you were into the man you are today. Had a hand in it. Perhaps for me it's the opposite. You asked if we could survive separation. A man cannot be separated from his shadow.".

"You haven't become my shadow, Hannibal," Will said. "You've just accepted the part of you that you refused to acknowledge. The part that made you hurt for your sister's death, and made you a lonely young man. We all have a mechanism that pumps out love, guilt and pain in varying degrees. Did I switch yours on, or just unblock it?"

"Do I really deserve an engineering metaphor?"

"Okay then. You can install stairs into that basement of yours. Go there at will. Feel what you feel. You don't need to wait for trapdoors to open."

Hannibal gazed at him uneasily. "Your suggestion seems unwise at best."

"This time you won't be alone." Will pictured Mischa's killer, hanging in the dark, dead eyes seeing nothing, waiting for them. "I'll be there with you."

 

*

Will woke at dawn, in bed. He dimly remembered Hannibal pulling him to his feet, and the creak of the deck as they'd made their way inside. Next to him Hannibal was deeply asleep, twisted in white sheets and dead to the world. Will leaned over him. Hannibal's mouth was parted, showing the tips of his teeth, and he was snoring a little. Will bent down and pressed his lips to Hannibal's forehead.

Hannibal woke, of course, immediately, reaching out a hand to Will. He was a very light sleeper. Was it some fluke of his brain chemistry, part and parcel with everything else? "What is it?"

"Nothing at all. Go back to sleep."

He did, with a soft sleepy sigh.

Out in the galley, Will made coffee and took it up on deck. The sea was calm and the water and sky were dusted with pink. He packed the cushions back in their box and folded the blanket. It would need washing at the very least. Possibly burning. It was damp with several things, only one of them dew. A paradise of DNA for anyone caring to look. He gripped it hard. Jack could be trailing them right now.

From his pocket he took the napkin that bore Jan's portrait of Hannibal. He dropped it over the side, and watched it take on water and slowly sink.

He weighed anchor and started the engine, pushing the boat as hard as he could. He came in range of a couple of coastguard ships, but they both ignored him. He skirted past them, keeping as far from other vessels as he could. The wind was rising, and exhaustion was pulling at him from navigating the choppy waves.

Hannibal emerged finally, sleep-dishevelled. He wore a crease down the side of his face and the bottom half of a pair of pale blue pyjamas. He came up behind Will and slid his arms around him, and rested his chin on Will's shoulder.

"Are we being pursued?" Hannibal said. "You have us going very fast."

"Not as far as I know. But I'd rather put as many miles as I can between us and Jack."

"Perhaps he won't follow us. Perhaps he'll prefer to wait, and dream of signs and portents of our existence. Perhaps he'll return to the capella and become a faithful member of the congregation."

"Hannibal." His throat locked tight and it took him a moment before he was able to get the words out. "I can't lose you now."

Hannibal pressed closer, arms tightening around him, the heat of his breath on Will's neck. "We'll run, and we'll hide as well as we can manage."

"Historically, you're not that great at hiding."

"Not when I want to be caught," Hannibal said.

"By me."

"Yes. But I don't want to be caught again. I'll do as you asked."

"Keep your head down. Don't kill anyone."

"Yes. I'll keep us safe," said Hannibal.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Emungere for beta and thanks to NBCHANNIBALBIGBANG for making this happen! Thank you also to [Buffbaberinkah](http://Buffbaberinkah.tumblr.com) for her gorgeous artwork. 
> 
> The title comes from this quote by Ophelia, in Hamlet: 'We know what we are, but not what we may be.' It seemed appropriate for Hannibal and Will, as their story is as much about change as anything else.


End file.
